\ 


I 


THE  NEW  NOVELS. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT?  By  Pisistratus 
Caxton.  a  Novel.  By  Sir  E  Bulwer  Lytton,  Bart.,  Author  of 
"  My  Novel  ;  or,  Varieties  in  English  Life,"  "  The  Caxtons,"  "  Pelham," 
"  Night  and  Morning,"  "  The  Last  of  the  Barons,"  &c.,  &c.  8vo,  Paper,  75 
cents ;  Muslin,  $1  00. 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG.     A  Novel.     By 
Charles    Reade,  Author   of  "Christie   Johnstone,"  "Peg  AYoffington," 
"  Never  too  late  to  Mend,"  &c.     12mo,  Muslin. 


THE  LAIBD  OF  NORLAW.     A  Scottish  Story.     By  the 
Author  of  "  Margaret  Maitland,"  "  The  Days  of  My  Life,"  &c.,  &c.     12mo, 
Muslin,  $1  00. 


a  YLVAN  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER     A  Novel.     By  Holme 

^     Lee,  Author  of  "  Kathie  Brande."     12mo,  Muslin,  SI  00. 


T^HE  OLD  PLANTATION,  and  What  I  Gathered  There  in 

an  Ai 
Muslin. 


I 

-■-      an  Autumnal  Month.      By  James    Hungerford,  of  Maryland.       12mo, 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.      A  Novel.      By  Mrs.  Gaskell, 
Author  of  "  Mary  Barton,"  "  North  and  South,"  "  Cranford,"  "  The  Moor- 
land Cottage,"  &c.     8vo,  Paper,  12  cents. 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


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LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS. 


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67. 

I    ''■ 
I   60. 

I    70. 
71. 


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THE  WORKS  OF 


Sir    E.  BULWER    LYTTON,  Bart. 


Who  is  there  uniting  in  one  person  the  imagination,  the  passion,  the  humor,  the  energy,  the 
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PUBLISHED    BY    HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN    SQUARE.    NEW   YORK 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


<f. 


B¥  PISISTRATUS  CAXTON. 


%  Kouel. 


BY  SIR  E,  BBIWER  LYTTON  BART. 


AUTHOE   OF 


»MY  NOVEL;  o«,  VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE,"  "THE  CAXTONS,"  "PELHAM," 
"NIGHT  AND  MORNING,"  "THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS,"  &c.,  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FBANKLIN    SQUARE. 

1859. 


^s 


¥HAT  ¥ILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


BOOK     I, 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  which  the  Ilistory  opens  with  a  description  of  the  So- 
cial Manners,  Habits,  and  Amusemonts  of  tlie  English 
People,  as  exhibited  in  an  immemorial  National  Fes- 
tivity.— Characters  to  be  commemorated  in  the  Histo- 
ry introduced  and  graphically  portrayed,  with  a  naso- 
logical  illnstration. — Original  suggestions  as  to  the 
idiosyncracies  engendered  by  trades  and  callings,  with 
other  matters  worthy  of  note,  conveyed  in  artless  dia- 
logue, after  the  manner  of  Herodotus,  Father  of  His- 
tory (Motlier  unknown). 

It  was  a  summer  Fair  in  one  of  tlie  prettiest 
villages  in  Surrey.     The  main  street  was  lined 
with  booths  abounding  in  toys,  gleaming  crock- 
ery, gay  ribbons,  and  gilded  gingerbread.     Far- 
tiier  on,  where  the  street  widened  into  the  am- 
ple village -green,  rose  the  more  pretending  fab- 
rics which  lodged  the  attractive  forms  of  the  Mer-  j 
maid,  the  Norfolk  Giant,  the  Pig- faced  Lady, 
the  Spotted  Boy,  and  the  Calf  with  Two  Heads  ;  ' 
while  high  over  even  these   edifices,  and  oc-  | 
cupying  the  most  conspicuous  vantage-ground, 
a  lofty  stage  promised  to  rural  play-goers  the 
"  Grand    Melodramatic    Performance    of  Tlic  ^ 
Remorseless  Baron  and  the  Bandit's  Child."  ^ 
Music,  lively  if  artless,  resounded  on  eveiy  side  ; 
drums,   fifes,   penny-whistles,   cat-calls,   and   a  l 
hand-organ  played  by  a  dark  foreigner,  from  the 
height  of  whose  shoulder  a  cynical  but  observant 
monkey  eyed  the  hubbub  and  cracked  his  nuts. 

It  was  now  sunset — the  throng  at  the  fidlest —  | 
an  animated,  joyotis  scene.     The  day  had  been  I 
sultry ;  no  clouds  were  to  be  seen,  except  low  I 
on  the  western  horizon,  where  they  stretched,  in  i 
lengthened  ridges  of  gold  and  puqile,  like  the 
border-land  between  earth  and  sky.     The  tall 
elms  on  the  green  were  still,  save,  near  the  great 
stage,  one  or  two,  upon  which  young  urchins  had  ! 
climbed ;  and  their  laughing  faces  peered  forth,  ' 
here  and  there,  from  the  foliage  trembling  un- 
der their  restless  movements. 

Amidst  the  crowd,  as  it  streamed  sauntering- 
ly  along,  were  two  spectators — strangers  to  the 
place,  as  was  notably  proved  by  the  attention 
they  excited,  and  the  broad  jokes  their  dress 
and  appearance  provoked  from  the  rustic  wits 
— jokes  which  they  took  with  amused  good-hu- 
mor, and  sometimes  retaliated  with  a  zest  wiiicli 
had  already  made  them  very  popular  personages ; 
indeed,  there  was  that  about  tliem  which  projii- 
tiated  liking.  They  were  young,  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  enjoyment  was  so  visible  in  their  faces 
that  it  begot  a  sympathy,  and  wherever  they  went 
other  faces  brightened  round  them. 

One  of  the  two  whom  we  have  thus  individu- 
alized was  of  that  enviable  age,  ranging  from 
five-and-twenty  to  seven-and-tweuty,  in  which, 
if  a  man  can  not  contrive  to  make  life  very 


j)leasant — pitiable,  indeed,  must  be  tne  state  of 
his  digestive  organs.  But  you  might  see  by  this 
gentleman's  countenance,  that  if  there  were 
many  like  him,  it  would  be  a  worse  world  for 
the  doctors.  His  cheek,  though  not  highly-col- 
ored, was  yet  ruddy  and  clear;  his  hazel  eyes 
were  lively  and  keen ;  his  hair,  which  escaped 
in  loose  clusters  from  a  jean  shooting-cap  set 
jauntily  on  aAvell-shaped  head,  was  of  that  deep 
sunny  auburn  rarely  seen  but  in  ])ersons  of  vig- 
orous and  hardy  temperament.  He  was  good- 
looking  on  the  whole,  and  would  have  deserved 
t]ie  more  flattering  epithet  of  handsome,  but  for 
his  nose,  which  was  what  the  French  call  "a 
nose  in  the  air" — not  a  nose  supercilious,  not  a 
nose  provocative,  as  such  noses  mostly  are,  but 
a  nose  decidedly  in  earnest  to  make  the  best 
of  itself  and  of  things  in  general — a  nose  that 
would  push  its  way  up  in  life,  but  so  jjleasantly 
that  the  most  irritable  fingers  would  never  itch 
to  lay  hold  of  it.  With  such  a  nose  a  man  might 
play  the  violoncello,  marry  for  love,  or  even  write 
])oetry,  and  yet  not  go  to  the  dogs.  Never  would 
he  stick  in  the  mud  so  long  as  he  followed  that 
nose  in  the  air  I 

By  the  help  of  that  nose  this  gentleman  wore 
a  black  velveteen  jacket  of  foreign  cut ;  a  mus- 
tache and  imjjerial  (then  much  rarer  in  England 
than  they  have  been  since  the  siege  of  Sebasto- 
pol) ;  and  yet  left  you  perfectly  convinced  that 
he  was  an  honest  Englishman,  wlio  had  not  only 
no  designs  on  your  pocket,  but  would  not  be  eas- 
ily duped  by  any  designs  upon  his  omi. 

The  companion  of  the  personage  thus  sketch- 
ed might  be  somewhere  about  seventeen ;  but 
his  gait,  his  air,  his  lithe,  vigorous  frame,  showed 
a  manliness  at  variance  with  the  boyish  bloom 
of  his  face.  He  struck  the  eye  much  more  than 
his  elder  comrade.  Not  that  he  was  regularly 
handsome — far  from  it ;  yet  it  is  no  paradox  to 
say  that  he  was  beautiful — at  least,  few  indeed 
were  the  women  who  would  not  have  called  him 
so.  His  hair,  long  like  his  friend's,  was  of  a 
dark  chestnut,  with  gold  gleaming  through  it 
where  the  sun  fell,  iuGlining  to  curl,  and  singu- 
larly soft  and  silken  in  its  texture.  His  largo, 
clear,  dark-blue,  hap])y  eyes  were  fringed  with 
long  ebon  lashes,  and  set  under  brows  which  al- 
ready wore  the  expression  of  intellectual  power, 
and,  better  still,  of  frank  courage  and  open  loy- 
alty. His  complexion  was  fair,  and  somewhat 
paie,  and  his  lips  in  laugliing  showed  teeth  ex- 
quisitely white  and  even.  But  though  his  pro- 
file was  clearly  cut,  it  was  far  from  the  Greek 
ideal ;  and  he  wanted  tlie  height  of  stature 
whicli  is  usually  considered  essential  to  the  per- 
sonal'pretensious  of  the  male  sex.     Without  be- 


K;i*2.'yRaH^ 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


ing  positively  short,  he  was  still  under  middle 
height,  and,  from  the  compact  development  of 
his  jjroportions,  seemed  already  to  have  attained 
liis  full  growth.  His  dress,  though  not  foreign, 
like  his  conn-ade's,  was  peculiar  ;  a  broad-brim- 
med straw-hat,  with  a  wide  blue  ribbon ;  shirt- 
collar  turned  down,  leaving  the  throat  bare ;  a 
dark-green  jacket  of  thinner  material  than  cloth ; 
whitetrowsers  and  waistcoat  completed  his  cos- 
tume. He  looked  like  a  mother's  darling — per- 
haps he  was  one. 

Scratch  across  his  back  went  one  of  those  in- 
genious mechanical  contrivances  familiarly  in 
vogue  at  fairs,  which  are  designed  to  impress 
upon  the  victim  to  whom  they  are  applied  the 
pleasing  conviction  that  his  garment  is  rent  in 
twain. 

The  boy  turned  round  so  quickly  that  he 
caught  the  arm  of  the  offender — a  pretty  vil- 
lage-girl, a  year  or  two  younger  tlian  himself. 
"Found  in  the  act,  sentenced,  ]ninished,"  cried 
he,  snatching  a  kiss,  and  receiving  a  gentle  slap. 
"And  now,  good  for  evil,  here's  a  ribbon  for 
you — choose." 

The  girl  slunk  back  shyly,  but  her  companions 
pushed  her  forward,  and  she  ended  by  selecting 
a  cherry-colored  ribbon,  for  which  the  boy  paid 
carelessly,  while  his  elder  and  wiser  friend  look- 
ed at  him  with  grave,  compassionate  rebuke, 
and  grumbled  out — "  Dr.  Franklin  tells  us  that 
once  in  his  life  he  ])aid  too  dear  for  a  whistle; 
but  then  he  was  only  seven  years  old,  and  a 
whistle  has  its  uses.  But  to  pay  such  a  price 
for  a  scratchback !     Prodigal !     Come  along !" 

As  the  friends  strolled  on,  naturally  enough 
all  the  young  girls  who  wished  for  ribbons,  and 
were  possessed  of  scratchbacks,  followed  in  their 
wake.  Scratch  went  the  instruments,  but  in 
vain. 

"Lasses,"  said  the  elder,  turning  sharply 
upon  them  his  nose  in  the  air,  "ribbons  are 
plentiful — shillings  scarce ;  and  kisses,  though 
pleasant  in  private,  are  insipid  in  public.  What, 
still !  Beware !  know  that,  innocent  as  we  seem, 
we  are  women-eaters  ;  and  if  you  follow  us  far- 
ther, you  are  devoured !"  So  saying,  he  expand- 
ed his  jaws  to  a  width  so  preternaturally  large, 
and  exhibited  a  row  of  grinders  so  formidable, 
that  the  girls  fell  back  in  consternation.  The 
friends  turned  down  a  narrow  alley  between 
the  booths,  and  though  still  pursued  by  some 
advcntin'ous  and  mercenary  spirits,  were  com- 
paratively undisturbed  as  they  threaded  their 
way  along  the  back  of  the  booths,  and  arrived 
at  last  on  the  village-green,  and  in  front  of  the 
Great  Stage. 

"  Oho,  Lionel !"  quoth  the  elder  friend ; 
"Thespian  and  classical — worth  seeing,  no 
doubt."  Then,  turning  to  a  grave  cobbler  in 
leathern  apron,  who  was  regarding  the  dramatis 
posonfe  ranged  in  front  of  the  curtain  with  sat- 
urnine ii\terest,  he  said,  "You  seem  attracted, 
Sir ;  you  have  probably  already  witnessed  the 
performance." 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  Cobbler  ;  "  this  is  the 
third  day,  and  to-morrow's  the  last.  I  arn't 
missed  once  yet,  and  I  shan't  miss ;  but  it  arn't 
what  it  was  a  while  back." 

"  That  is  sad  ;  but  then  the  same  thing  is  said 
of  every  thing  by  every  body  who  has  reached 
your  resjiectable  age,  friend.  Summers  and 
Buns,   stupid   old   watering-places,    and    pretty 


young  women  *  arn't  what  they  were  a  while 
back.'  If  men  and  things  go  on  degenerating 
in  this  way,  our  grandchildren  will  have  a  dull 
time  of  it!" 

The  Cobbler  eyed  the  young  man,  and  nod- 
ded, approvingly.  He  had  sense  enough  to  com- 
prehend the  ironical  philosophy  of  the  reply — 
and  our  Cobbler  loved  talk  out  of  the  common 
way.  "  You  speaks  truly  and  cleverly.  Sir.  But 
if  old  folks  do  always  say  that  things  are  worse 
than  they  were,  ben't  there  always  summat  in 
what  is  always  said  ?  I'm  for  the  old  times ; 
my  neighbor,  Joe  Spruce,  is  for  the  new,  and 
says  we  are  all  a-progressing.  But  he's  a  pink 
— I'm  a  blue." 

"You  are  a  blue!"  said  the  boy  Lionel — "I 
don't  understand." 

"Young  'un,  I'm  a  Tory — that's  blue;  and 
Spruce  is  a  Had — that's  pink!  And,  what  is 
more  to  the  purpose,  he  is  a  tailor,  and  I'm  a 
cobbler." 

"Aha!"  said  the  elder,  with  much  interest ; 
"  more  to  the  purpose,  is  it?     How  so?" 

The  Cobbler  put  the  forefinger  of  the  right 
hand  on  the  foi'efinger  of  the  left ;  it  is  the  ges- 
ture of  a  man  about  to  ratiocinate  or  demon- 
strate— as  Quintilian,  in  his  remarks  on  the  or- 
atory of  fingers,  ])robably  observes ;  or,  if  he  has 
failed  to  do  so,  it  is  a  blot  on  his  essay. 

"You  see,  Sir,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  "that  a 
man's  business  has  a  deal  to  do  with  his  manner 
of  thinking.  Every  trade,  I  take  it,  has  ideas 
as  belong  to  it.  Butchers  don't  see  life  as  bak- 
ers do  ;  and  if  you  talk  to  a  dozen  tallow-chand- 
lers, then  to  a  dozen  blacksmiths,  you  will  see 
tallow-chandlers  are  peculiar,  and  blacksmiths, 
too." 

"  You  are  a  keen  observer,"  said  he  of  the 
jean  cap,  admiringly  ;  "your  remark  is  new  to 
me ;  I  dare  say  it  is  true." 

"Course  it  is :  and  the  stars  have  summat  to 
do  with  it ;  for  if  they  order  a  man's  calling,  it 
stands  to  reason  that  they  order  a  man's  mind 
to  fit  it.  Now,  a  tailor  sits  on  his  board  with 
others,  and  is  always  a-talking  with  'em,  and 
a-reading  the  news ;  therefore  he  thinks,  as  his 
fellows  do,  smart  and  sharp,  bang  up  to  the  day, 
but  nothing  'riginal  and  all  his  own  like.  But 
a  cobbler,"  continued  the  man  of  leather,  with 
a  majestic  air,  "  sits  by  hisself,  and  talks  with 
hisseif ;  and  what  he  thinks  gets  into  his  head 
without  being  put  there  by  another  man's 
tongue." 

"You  enlighten  me  more  and  more,"  said 
our  friend  with  the  nose  in  the  air,  bowing  re- 
spectfully. "A  tailor  is  gregarious,  a  cobbler 
solitary.  The  gregarious  go  with  the  future, 
the  solitary  stick  by  the  past.  I  understand 
why  you  are  a  Tory,  and  perhaps  a  poet." 

"  Well,  a  bit  of  one,"  said  the  Cobbler,  with 
an  iron  smile.  "  And  many's  the  cobbler  who 
is  a  poet — or  discovers  marbellous  things  in  a 
crystal — whereas  a  tailor,  Sir"  (spoken  with 
great  contempt),  "  only  sees  the  uiiper-leather 
of  the  world's  sole  in  a  newspaper." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a 
sudden  pressure  of  the  crowd  toward  the  thea- 
tre ;  the  two  young  friends  looked  up,  and  saw- 
that  the  new"  object  of  attraction  was  a  little 
girl,  who  seemed  scarcely  ten  years  old,  though 
in  truth  she  was  about  two  years  older.  She 
had  just    emerged   from   behind   the  curtain, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


9 


made  her  obeisance  to  the  crowd,  and  was  now 
walking  in  front  of  the  stage  with  tlie  prettiest 
possible  air  of  infantine  solemnity.  "  Toor  lit- 
tle thing!"  said  Lionel.  "Poor  little  thing  I" 
said  the  Cobbler.  And  had  you  been  there,  ray 
reader,  ten  to  one  but  you  would  have  said  the 
same.  And  yet  she  was  attired  in  white  satin, 
with  spangled  flounce  and  a  tinsel  jacket ;  and 
she  wore  a  wreath  of  flowers  (to  be  sure,  the 
flowers  were  not  real)  on  her  long  fair  curls, 
with  gaudy  bracelets  (to  be  sure,  the  stones 
were  mock)  on  her  slender  arms.  Still  there 
was  something  in  her  that  all  this  finery  could 
not  vulgarize  ;  and  since  it  could  not  vulgarize, 
you  pitied  her  for  it.  She  had  one  of  those 
charming  faces  that  look  straight  into  the  hearts 
of  us  all,  young  and  old.  And  though  she 
seemed  quite  self-possessed,  there  was  no  ef- 
frontery in  her  air,  but  the  ease  of  a  little  lady, 
with  the  simple  unconsciousness  of  a  c'.iild  that 
there  was  any  thing  in  her  situation  to  induce 
you  to  sigh,  "  Poor  thing  !" 

"  You  should  sec  her  act,  young  gents,"  said 
the  Cobbler.  '•  She  plays  uncommon.  But  if 
you  had  seen  him  as  taught  her — seen  him  a 
year  ago." 

"  Who's  that  ?" 

"  Waife,  Sir.  ilayhap  you  have  heard  speak 
of  Waife  ?" 

"  I  blush  to  say,  no." 

"  Why,  he  might  have  made  his  fortune  at 
Common  Garden  ;  but  that's  a  long  story.  Poor 
fellow  I  he's  broke  down  now,  anyhow.  But 
she  takes  care  of  him,  little  darling — God  bless 
thee !"  And  the  Cobbler  here  exchanged  a 
smile  and  nod  with  the  little  girl,  whose  face 
brightened  A\hen  she  saw  him  amidst  the 
crowd. 

"  By  the  brush  and  pallet  of  Eafraellc,"  cried 
the  elder  of  the  young  men,  "  before  I  am 
many  hours  older  I  must  have  that  child's 
kead  I" 

"  Her  head,  man  !"  cried  the  Cobbler,  aghast. 

"  In  my  sketch-book.  You  are  a  poet — I  a 
painter.     You  know  the  little  girl  ?" 

"  Don't  I !  She  and  her  grandfather  lodge 
with  me — her  gi-andfather — that's  Waife — mar- 
bellous  man  !  But  they  ill-uses  him  ;  and  if  it 
wasn't  for  her,  he'd  starve.  He  fed  them  all 
once  ;  he  can  feed  them  no  longer — he'd  starve. 
That's  the  world  ;  they  use  up  a  genus,  and 
when  it  falls  on  the  road,  push  on  ;  that's  what 
Joe  Spnice  calls  a-progressing.  But  there's  the 
drum  !  they're  a-going  to  act.  Won't  you  look 
in,  gents?" 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Lionel,  "  of  course.  And, 
hark  ye,  Vance,  we'll  toss  up  v.-hich  shall  be  the 
first  to  take  that  little  girl's  head." 

"Murderer  in  eitlier  sense  of  the  word!" 
said  Vance,  with  a  smile  that  would  have  be- 
come Correggio  if  a  tyro  had  offered  to  toss  up 
which  should  be  the  first  to  paint  a  cherub. 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  Historian  takes  a  view  of  the  British  Stage  as  rep- 
resented by  the  Irregular  Drama,  the  Regular  having 
(ere  the  date  of  tlie  events  to  which  this  narrative  is  re- 
stricted) disappeared  from  the  Vestiges  of  Creation. 

TuEY  entered  the  little  theatre,  and  the  Cob- 
bler with  them ;   but  the  last  retired  modestly 


to  the  threepenny  row.  The  young  gentlemen 
were  favored  with  reserved  seats,  price  one  shil- 
ling. "  Very  dear,"  murmured  Vance,  as  he 
carefully  buttoned  the  pocket  to  which  he  re- 
stored a  purse  woven  from  links  of  steel,  after 
the  fashion  of  chain  mail.  Ah,  Mes.'iieurs  and 
Confreres,  the  dramatic  authors,  do  not  flatter 
yourselves  that  we  are  about  to  give  you  a  com- 
placent triumph  over  the  Grand  Melodramc 
of  "The  Remorseless  Baron  and  tiic  Bandit's 
Child."  We  grant  it  was  horrible  rubbisli,  re- 
garded in  an  aesthetic  point  of  view,  but  it  was 
mightily  effective  in  the  theatrical.  Nobodj 
yawned ;  you  did  not  even  hear  a  cough,  nor 
the  cry  of  that  omnipresent  baby  who  is  always 
sure  to  set  up  a  Varjitus  inr/ens,  or  unappeasable 
wail,  in  tiic  midmost  interest  of  a  classical  five- 
act  piece,  represented  for  the  first  time  on  the 
metropolitan  boards.  Here  the  story  rushed  on 
per  fas  aut  nefas,  and  the  audience  went  with 
it.  Certes,  some  man  who  understood  the  stage 
must  have  put  the  incidents  together,  and  then 
left  it  to  each  illiterate  histrio  to  find  the  words 
— words,  my  dear  confreres,  signify  so  little  in 
an  acting  play.  The  movement  is  the  thing. 
Grand  secret '  Analyze,  practice  it,  and  restore 
to  grateful  stars  that  lost  Pleiad,  the  British 
Acting  Drama. 

Of  course  the  Bandit  was  an  ill-used  and  most 
estimable  man.  He  had  some  mysterious  rights 
to  the  Estate  and  Castle  of  the  Remorseless 
Baron.  That  titled  usurper,  therefore,  did  all 
in  his  power  to  hunt  the  Bandit  out  in  his  fast- 
nesses, and  bring  him  to  a  bloody  end.  Here  the 
interest  centred  itself  in  the  Bandit's  child,  who, 
we  need  not  say,  was  the  little  girl  in  the  wreath 
and  spangles,  styled  in  the  playbill  "  Miss  Juliet 
Araminta  Waife,"  and  the  incidents  consisted 
in  her  various  devices  to  foil  the  pursuit  of  the 
Baron  and  save  her  father.  Some  of  these  in- 
cidents were  indebted  to  the  Comic  Muse,  and 
kept  the  audience  in  a  broad  laugh.  Her  arch 
playfulness  here  was  requisite.  AYith  what  vi- 
vacity she  duped  the  High  Sheriff",  who  had  the 
commands  of  his  king  to  take  the  Bandit  alive 
or  dead,  into  the  belief  that  the  very  Lawyer 
employed  by  the  Baron  was  the  criminal  in  dis- 
guise, and  what  pearly  teeth  she  showed  when 
the  lawyer  was  seized  and  gagged ;  how  dex- 
terously she  ascertained  the  weak  point  in  the 
character  of  the  "King's  Lieutenant"  (jeunepre- 
r/iie)-),  who  was  deputed  by  his  royal  master  to 
aid  the  Remorseless  Baron  in  trouncing  the  Ban- 
dit ;  how  cunningly  she  learned  that  he  was  in 
love  with  the  Baron's  ward  (jeune  amoreuse), 
whom  that  unworthy  noble  intended  to  force 
into  a  maiTiage  with  himself  on  account  of  her 
fortune ;  how  prettily  she  passed  notes  to  and 
fro,  the  Lieutenant  never  suspecting  that  she 
was  the  Bandit's  child,  and  at  last  got  the  King's 
soldier  on  her  side,  as  the  event  proved.  And 
oh  how  gayly,  and  with  what  mimic  art,  she  stole 
into  the  Baron's  castle,  disguised  herself  as  a 
witch,  startled  his  conscience  with  revelations 
and  f)redictions,  frightened  all  the  vassals  with 
blue  lights  and  chemical  illusions,  and  ventur- 
ing even  into  the  usurper's  own  private  chamber 
while  that  tyrant  was  tossing  restless  on  the 
couch,  over  which  hung  his  terrible  sword,  ab- 
stracted from  his  coff'er  the  deeds  that  proved 
the  better  rights  of  the  persecuted  Bandit.  Then, 
when  he  woke  before  she  could  escape  with  her 


10 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


treasure,  and  pursued  lier  with  his  sword,  with 
what  glee  she  apparently  set  herself  on  fire,  and 
skipped  out  of  the  casement  in  an  explosion  of 
crackers.  And  when  the  drama  ajjproached  its 
denouement,  when  the  Baron's  men,  and  the  I'oy- 
al  officers  of  justice,  had,  despite  all  her  arts, 
tracked  the  Bandit  to  the  cave,  in  which,  after 
various  retreats,  he  lay  hidden,  wounded  bv 
shots,  and  bruised  by  a  fall  from  a  precipice— 
witli  what  admirable  by-play  she  hovered  around 
the  spot,  with  what  pathos  she  sought  to  decoy 
away  the  pursuers — it  was  the  sky-lark  playing 
round  the  nest.  And  when  all  was  vain — when, 
no  longer  to  be  deceived,  the  enemies  sought 
to  seize  her,  how  mockingly  she  eluded  them, 
bounded  uj)  the  rock,  and  shook  her  slight  finger 
at  them  in  scorn.  Surely  she  will  save  that  esti- 
mable Bandit  still !  Now,  hitherto,  thougli  the 
Bandit  was  the  nominal  hero  of  the  piece,  though 
)'ou  were  always  hearing  of  him — his  wrongs, 
virtues,  hair-breadth  escapes — he  had  never  been 
seen.  Not  Mrs.  Harris,  in  the  immortal  narra- 
tive, was  more  quoted  and  more  mythical.  But 
in  the  last  scene  there  2ras  the  Bandit,  there 
in  his  cavern,  helpless  with  bruises  and  wounds, 
lying  on  a  rock.  In  rushed  the  enemies.  Baron, 
High  Sheriff,  and  all,  to  seize  him.  Not  a  word 
spoke  the  Bandit,  but  his  attitude  was  sublime 
— even  Vance  cried  "Bravo  ;"  and  just  as  he  is 
seized,  halter  round  his  neck,  and  about  to  be 
hanged,  down  from  the  chasm  above  leaps  his 
child,  holding  the  title-deeds,  filched  from  the 
Baron,  and  by  her  side  the  King's  Lieutenant, 
who  proclaims  the  Bandit's  pardon,  with  due 
restoration  to  his  honors  and  estates,  and  con- 
signs, to  the  astounded  Sherifl:',  the  august  person 
of  the  Kemorseless  Baron.  Then  the  affecting 
scene,  father  and  child  in  each  other's  arms  ; 
and  then  an  exclamation,  which  had  been  long 
hovering  about  the  lips  of  many  of  the  audience, 
broke  out,  "Waife,  Waife !"  Yes,  the  Bandit, 
who  appeared  but  in  the  last  scene,  and  even 
then  uttered  not  a  word,  was  the  once  great 
actor  on  that  itinerant  Thespian  stage,  known 
through  many  a  Fair  for  his  exuberant  humor, 
his  impromptu  jokes,  his  arch  eye,  his  redun- 
dant life  of  drollery,  and  the  strange  pathos  or 
dignity  with  which  he  could  suddenly  exalt  a 
jester's  part,  and  call  forth  tears  in  the  startled 
hash  of  laughter ;  he  whom  the  Cobbler  had 
rightly  said,  "  might  have  made  a  fortune  at  Cov- 
ent  Garden."  There  was  the  remnant  of  the  old 
popular  mime  ! — all  his  attributes  of  eloquence 
reduced  to  dumb  show !  Masterly  touch  of  na- 
ture and  of  art  in  this  representation  of  him — 
touch  which  all,  who  had  ever  in  former  years 
seen  and  heard  him  on  that  stage,  felt  simulta- 
neously. He  came  in  for  his  personal  portion 
of  dramatic  tears.  "Waife,  Waife !"  cried  many 
a  village  voice,  as  the  little  girl  led  him  to  the 
front  of  the  stage.  He  hobbled ;  there  was  a 
bandage  round  his  eyes.  The  plot,  in  describ- 
ing the  accident  that  had  befallen  the  Bandit, 
idealized  the  genuine  infirmities  of  the  man — 
infirmities  that  had  befallen  him  since  last  seen 
in  that  village.  He  was  blind  of  one  eye;  he 
had  become  crippled  ;  some  malady  of  the  tra- 
chea or  larynx  had  seemingly  broken  up  the 
once  joyous  key  of  the  old  pleasant  voice.  He 
did  not  trust  hrmself  to  speak,  even  on  that 
stage,  but  silently  bent  his  head  to  the  rustic 
audience ;   and  Vance,  who  was   an  habitual 


phiy-goer,  saw  in  that  simple  salutation  that  the 
man  was  an  artistic  actor.  All  was  over,  the 
audience  streamed  out  affected,  and  talking  one 
to  the  other.  It  had  not  been  at  all  like  the  or- 
dinarystage-exhibitionsat  a  village  Fair.  Vance 
and  Lionel  stared  at  each  other  in  surprise,  and 
then,  by  a  common  impulse,  moved  toward  the 
stage,  pushed  aside  the  curtain,  which  had  fallen, 
and  were  in  that  strange  world  which  has  so 
many  reduplications,  fragments  of  one  broken 
mirror,  whether  in  the  proudest  theatre,  or  the' 
lowliest  barn — nay,  whether  in  the  palace  of 
kings,  the  cabinet  of  statesmen,  the  home  of  do- 
mestic life  —  the  world  we  call  "Behind  the 
Scenes." 


CHAPTER  in. 


striking  illustrations  of  lawless  tyranny  and  infant  ava- 
rice exemplified  in  the  social  conditions  of  Great  Brit- 
ain.— Superstitions  of  the  Dark  Ages  still  in  force  among 
the  Trading  Community,  furnishing  valuable  hints  to 
certain  American  journalists,  and  highly  suggestive  of 
reflections  humiliating  to  the  national  vanity. 

The  Eemorseless  Baron,  who  was  no  other 
than  the  managerial  proprietor  of  the  stage,  W'as 
leaning  against  a  side-scene,  with  a  pot  of  porter 
in  his  hand.  The  King's  Lieutenant  might  be 
seen  on  the  background,  toasting  a  piece  of 
cheese  on  the  point  of  his  loyal  sword.  The 
Bandit  had  crept  into  a  corner,  and  the  little 
girl  was  clinging  to  him  fondly,  as  his  hand  was 
stroking  her  fair  hair.  Vance  looked  round, 
and  approached  the  Bandit — "  Sir,  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  ;  your  bow  was  admirable.  I 
have  never  seen  John  Kemble — before  my  time ; 
but  I  shall  fancy  I  have  seen  him  now — seen 
him  on  the  night  of  his  retirement  from  the 
stage.  As  to  your  grandchild.  Miss  Juliet  Ara- 
minta,  she  is  a  perfect  chrysolite." 

Before  Mr.  Waife  could  reply,  the  Remorse- 
less Baron  stepped  up  in  a  spirit  worthy  of  his 
odious  and  arbitrary  character.  "  What  do  you 
do  here,  Sir?  I  allow  no  gents  behind  the 
scenes  earwigging  my  people." 

"  I  beg  pardon  respectfully :  I  am  an  artist — 
a  pupil  of  the  Royal  Academy  ;  I  should  like  to 
make  a  sketch  of  ]\Iiss  Juliet  Araminta." 

"  Sketch !  nonsense." 

"Sir,"  said  Lionel,  with  the  seasonable  ex- 
travagance of  early  youth,  "my  friend  would,  I 
am  sure,  pay  for  the  sitting — handsomel}' !" 

"  Ha !"  said  the  manager,  softened,  "  you 
speak  like  a  gentleman.  Sir;  but.  Sir,  IMiss  Ju- 
liet Araminta  is  under  my  protection — in  fact, 
she  is  my  property.  Call  and  speak  to  me 
about  it  to-morrow,  before  the  first  performance 
begins,  which  is  twelve  o'clock.  Happy  to  see 
any  of  your  friends  in  the  reserved  seats.  Busy 
now,  and — and — in  short — excuse  me — servant, 
Sir — servant,  Sir." 

The  Baron's  manner  left  no  room  for  further 
parley.  Vance  bowed,  smiled,  and  retreated. 
But,  meanwhile,  his  young  friend  had  seized 
the  opportunity  to  speak  both  to  Waife  and  his 
grandchild  ;  and  when  Vance  took  his  arm  and 
drew  him  away,  there  was  a  puzzled,  musing 
expression  on  Lionel's  face,  and  he  remained 
silent  till  they  had  got  through  the  press  of 
such  stragglers  as  still  loitered  before  the  stage, 
and  were  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  sward.  Stars 
and  moon  were  then  up — a  lovely  summer  night. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


11 


♦'What  on  earth  are  vou  thinking  of,  Lionel? 
I  have  put  to  you  three  questions,  and  you  have 
not  answered  one." 

*'  Vance,"  answered  Lionel,  slowly,  "  the  odd- 
est thing !  I  am  so  disappointed  in  that  little 
girl — p-eedy  and  mercenary !" 

'•  Precocious  villain  I  how  do  you  know^  that 
she  is  greedy  and  mercenary  ?" 

"Listen  :' when  that  surly  old  manager  came 
np  to  you,  I  said  something — civil,  of  course — 
to  Waife,  who  answered  in  a  hoarse,  broken 
voice,  but  in  very  good  language.  Well,  when 
I  told  the  manager  that  you  would  pay  for  the 
sitting,  the  child  caught  hold  of  my  arm  hastily, 
pulled  me  down  to  her  own  height,  and  whis- 
pered, '  How  much  will  he  give  ?'  Confused  by 
a  question  so  point-blank,  I  answered  at  ran- 
dom, 'I  don't  know;  ten  shillings,  perhaps.' 
You  should  have  seen  her  face !" 

"Seen  her  face!  radiant,  I  should  think  so. 
Too  much  by  halfl"  exclaimed  Vance.  "Ten 
shillings  I  spendthrift  I" 

"  Too  much  1  she  looked  as  you  might  look 
if  one  offered  you  ten  shillings  for  your  picture 
of  '  Julius  Cffisar  considering  whether  he  should 
cross  the  Rubicon.'  But  when  the  manager  had 
declared  her  to  be  his  property,  and  appointed 
you  to  call  to-morrow — implying  that  he  was  to 
be  paid  for  allowing  her  to  sit — her  countenance 
became  overcast,  and  she  muttered,  sullenly, 
'  I'll  not  sit ;  I'll  not !'  Then  she  turned  to  her 
grandfather,  and  something  very  quick  and  close 
was  whispered  between  the  two ;  and  she  pulled 
me  by  the  sleeve,  and  said  in  my  ear — oh,  but 
so  eagerly  1 — '  I  want  three  pounds ;  oh,  three 
pounds  1  if  he  would  give  three  pounds  I  And 
come  to  our  lodgings — Mr.  Merle,  Willow  Lane. 
Three  pounds — three  1'  And  with  those  words 
hissing  in  my  ear,  and  coming  from  that  fairy 
mouth,  which  ought  to  drop  pearls  and  dia- 
monds, I  left  her,"  added  Lionel,  as  giavely  as 
if  he  were  sixty,  •'  and  lost  an  illusion." 

"Three  pounds!"  cried  Vance,  raising  his  eye- 
brows to  the  highest  arch  of  astonishment,  and 
lifting  his  nose  in  the  air  toward  the  majestic 
moon — "  three  pounds  I  a  fabulous  sum !  Who 
has  three  pounds  to  throw  away  ?  Dukes,  with 
a  hundred  thousand  a  year  in  acres,  have  not 
three  pounds  to  draw  out  of  their  pockets  in 
that  reckless,  profligate  manner.  Three  pounds  I 
what  could  I  not  buy  for  three  pounds  ?  I  could 
buy  the  Dramatic  Library,  bound  in  calf,  for 
three  pounds;  I  could  buy  a  dress-coat  for  three 
pounds  (silk  lining  not  included) ;  I  could  be 
lodged  for  a  month  for  three  pounds!  And  a 
jade  in  tinsel,  just  entering  on  her  teens,  to  ask 
three  pounds  for  what  ?  for  becoming  immortal 
on  the  canvas  of  Francis  Vance  ?  bother !" 

Here  Vance  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  He 
turned  round  quickly,  as  a  man  out  of  temper 
does  under  similar  circumstances,  and  beheld 
the  swart  face  of  the  Cobbler. 

"Well,  master,  did  not  she  act  fine? — how 
d'ye  like  her?" 

"Not  much  in  her  natural  character;  but 
she  sets  a  mighty  high  value  on  herself." 

"Anan,  I  don't  take  you." 

"She'll  not  catch  me  taking  her!  Three 
pounds  I — three  kingdoms." 

"Stay,"  cried  Lionel  to  the  Cobbler;  "did 
not  you  say  she  lodged  with  you?  Are  you 
Mr.  Merle?" 


"  Merle's  my  name,  and  she  do  lodge  with  me 
— Willow  Lane." 

"  Come  this  way,  then,  a  few  yards  down  the 
road — more  quiet.  Tell  me  what  the  child 
means,  if  you  can  ?"  and  Lionel  related  the  offer 
of  his  friend,  the  reply  of  the  manager,  and  the 
grasping  avarice  of  Miss  Juliet  Araminta. 

The  Cobbler  made  no  answer ;  and  ■when  the 
young  friends,  sui-prised  at  his  silence,  turned  to 
look  at  him,  they  saw  he  was  wiping  his  eyes 
with  his  sleeve. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  he  said  at  last,  and  still 
more  pathetically  than  he  had  uttered  the  same 
words  at  her  appearance  in  front  of  the  stage ; 
"  'tis  all  for  her  grandfather,  I  guess — I  guess." 
"Oh,"  cried  Lionel,  joyfully,  "I  am  so  glad 
to  think  that.  It  alters  the  whole  case,  you  see, 
Vance." 

"  It  don't  alter  the  case  of  the  three  pounds," 
grumbled  Vance.  "  What's  her  grandfather  to 
me,  that  I  should  give  his  grandchild  three 
pounds,  when  any  other  child  in  the  village 
would  have  leaped  out  of  her  skin  to  have  her 
face  upon  my  sketch-book  and  five  shillings  in 
her  pocket.     Hang  her  grandfather !" 

They  were  now  in  the  main  road.  The 
Cobbler  seated  himself  on  a  lonely  milestone, 
and  looked  first  at  one  of  the  faces  before  him, 
then  at  the  other;  that  of  Lionel  seemed  to 
attract  him  the  most,  and  in  speaking  it  was 
Lionel  whom  he  addressed. 

"Young  master,"  he  said,  "it  is  now  just 
four  years  ago  when  Mr.  Rugge,  coming  here, 
as  he  and  his  troop  had  done  at  Fair-time  ever 
sin'  I  can  mind  of,  brought  with  him  the  man 
you  have  seen  to-night,  William  Waife  ;  I  calls 
him  Gentleman  Waife.     However  that  man  fell 
into  such  straits — how  he  came  to  join  such  a 
carawan  would  puzzle  most  heads.     It  puzzles 
Joe  Spruce  uncommon  ;  it  don't  puzzle  me." 
"Why?"  asked  Vance. 
"Cos  of  Saturn!" 
"Satan?" 

"  Saturn — dead  agin  his  Second  and  Tenth 
House,  I'll  swear.  Lord  of  ascendant,  mayhap 
in  combustion  of  the  sun — who  knows?" 

"  You're  not  an  astrologer?"  said  Vance,  sus- 
piciously edging  off. 

"  Bit  of  it — no  offense." 
"What  does  it  signify?"  said  Lionel,  impa- 
tiently;  "go  on.     So  you  called  Mr.  Waife, 
j  '  Gentleman  Waife ;'  and  if  you  had  not  been 
I  an  astrologer  you  would  have  been  puzzled  to 
I  see  him  in  such  a  calling." 

"Ay,  that's  it ;  for  he  wam't  like  any  as  we 

'  ever  see  on  these  boards  hereabouts ;  and  yet  he 

\  warn't  exactly  like  a  Lunnon  actor,  as  I've  seen 

j  'em  in  Lunnon,  either,  but  more  like  a  clever 

fellow  who  acted  for  the  spree  of  the  thing. 

He  had  such  droll  jests,  and  looked  so  comical, 

'  yet  not  commonlike,  but  always  what  I  calls  a 

!  gentleman — just  as  if  one  o'  ye  two  were  doing 

j  a  bit  of  sport  to  please  your  friends.     Well,  he 

drew  hugely,  and  so  he  did,  every  time  be  came, 

so  that  the"  great  families  in  the  neighborhood 

would  go  to  hear  him ;  and  he  lodged  in  my 

house,  and  had  pleasant  ways  with  him,  and 

was  what  I  call  a  scollard.     But  still  I  don't 

want  to  deceive  ye,  and  I  should  judge  him  to 

have  been  a  wild  dog  in  his  day.     Mercury  ill- 

aspected — not  a  doubt  of  it.     Last  year  it  so 

happened  that  one  of  the  ^reat  gents  who  be- 


12 


so  he  went.     But  bad  I,  rl  "  " '"  ^"^ 

™s  sore  and  ,pitef„l  at  iSflea,".  I .  fir'  S"*!'' 

;;  You  mean  Juliet  Araminta?"  saiil  v,„™ 
plays  for  h°e       I'dCL        "'J'  '"S""'"  ""> 

-  No^^h!  V""^'-^  '^^"^^"^^^  '•"  ««id  Vance 
and  heel's  i'  ''?'•,  ^"^  ^'^  ^«  ^-^o^t 
four  shinty  gesr'':^'  v",  T"\^"-'  ->^ 
about  the  tou2y7hisZnt^'^  '?'''''''''''' 
and  now  they  be  hero  ^Tf  i^""^  "^""^  ""'^"' 
shocking  hard  to  botr'n  'It  tl?  ^""'^T' 
here  he  has  anv  ri.rht  t '  i  •'  ,"^  ^  ^o"  t  be- 
tends-only  a  sort  of  °,''''  '"  ^''''-'  ^«  ''«  pre- 
and  herSdfather  coum'''';"'^-^"S  "'^^^^-^^  she 
and  tha^.  what  hev"  h  o'do  '\  '"f"^  '^'^''^^'^  ' 
I'ttle  Soph,  wants  "the  Ihke  ^S.^ ' '"'^  "^^ 

three  p^u^drcStrel-  "T"' •^■-  ^^  ^'^-^  '-^ 
did,  how  cou  d  teV  4?'  ^r'  ''"^  "'  ^^^^3^ 
go?"  -^  ^'^^'^     U'here  could  tliey 

-ih?£  St'?!?/'-  ^"\J'^°-rJ  Waife  say 
could  get  li^^f^oSt^^^^^^^^^ 

beandependentW-'l^e^rJ;^Ta?;;;;Vi: 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


such  a  wreck.     But  ho  wn.  f        ,      °  ^®  ^^^n 

and  so  he  contrived  to\  "  up'thft  If  ^"^  '"' 
and  appear  hisself  -.r  1 1,„  )     .     •  ,  ''aj-stoiy, 

"M>'good'Sni''SiS\:;:^:'i.^^^fi"^'' 

are  greatly  obliged  to  you  ^,?  "  "^''  "'« 
^ve  should-muclUike  to'see  H^tir."'  T""'^-^"^ 
grandfatheratyourhou's;^^    4^^^^^ 

to-nS;x:;;nii;:".-"-^^-'^epi^:^^^-^ 

'']\o,  to-morrow :  yon  spo  Tn,- a-      i  •    . 
tient  to  get  back  noJ-Ve  'inL^l^o    ''  ^P^' 
"  Tis   flip  lof    1        "'^  ""' call  to-morrow  " 

Cobblen  ''But  yl?;''. '•?"•■  ''^y'"  ^^-^  the 
safely  at  mytoUZoZV  ^'  ''r  *"  '^^  '^'^^ 
andLardrK5^,r-j;^^^ 

"goo'^^night'Tyc^r"^"^'^^'"  ^^'--^  I^--l; 

on'2::3j:i::^^?:  Cobbler  stil,  seated 
minating.     They  walkoA     ,       /^'"'  ^'^^  »•«- 

,/'it  is  I  ^vi;:^ra.i'tcuh?t'r"'""^°'^^; 

I^'onel,  in  his  softest  tone  H^  .  T'  '^''^ 
coaxing  three  pounds  n,.l  e  ,  •  '""^  ^''''^  on 
and  that  mi'lnreonl  "'^'^'  ^"^»d, 

amonc  the  w  Id  v^,  "''■  ^^^agement.    For 

fession,  the  e  tan "i!,°'''''  '''■^^'-  ^^"^'^'^  P'^O" 
with  which  he  .arriS'S-o"  f^'  "*  '^^  ^'^''l 
purse;  and  thL'Sm'  n^whh  l"'"^^'  °"  '"« 
than  usually  in  the  li^.^nv;  '"'  "°-''^  "^o-'e 

such  scoffeii  '"that  ihey  ^  "^'  ''°'"  ""^^^^"'^d  ^o 
any  joke  at  his  l^^J'llZ.Z''V'''r'  '"> 
"At  your  expens^  Don '?;  '!  .'^^f  ,'"'  '™^'^' 
worth  a  farthina  vm,  ,T^^  n  '  ^^  a  joke  were 
mission."  "^'°S'>°^^^^oaldneyergiye  thatper- 

the''°softt"ss'^riL°'t'o''  '''*  ^°"°^-*  --ark, 
somesn^kein  tie  Jr  T?.''^  ^'^^  ^"^^  ^f 
mained  silent  Lif, t]  ~''"''  ^"  prudently  re- 
repeated,  '•!  is  I  V  n  ';?""  '^'"  ^^^-eeter, 
''Naturilly  •'  fh  ^'^''^  '''"  ^'^«  'alk  now  !" 
I7  .vou  W- for  t'is'rT"  ^^"^^'  "-^-al- 
have  the  intention  opi>  for  it "S  "'°  ^'"f 
appear  to  be  the  pricl'  D^^l-isll^'lSf^P^-d^ 

4ushTTnd'^"^^^^^^^'-'^«I-™d;r' 

t-e?:.^tS;:crIS;^X—^e  young 
and  reached  a  smn^?  down  a  green  Jane, 

Thames.  He^eXvb'^''  ''"  '^^  *^^"^  °f  tl>e 
few  davi  sretcTiinl-  ^  ^^Joarned  for  the  last 
countr^^om  tnrise  1^"'  '°""^'"S  '''^^"t  the 
and  bed  at^.  S,    '  iT.    '?,""'"»  ^«  ^"PP^^ 

to  theS[:;:::3^^  i;^^*^ -^°^"  "ied  Vance 

-e  turn  in  ^o  Sou^  1  a^d'^^^'lJd  f  \"'"^ 
quart  jug  of  that  capital  Mhisky.t^^  ''"'^"'  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"■■••'s!::R,:ia;s;si~-...>. 


s=SB:S?SS; 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


13 


Vance  ladled  out  the  toddy  and  lijjhted  his 
cisar,  then,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
his  elbow  on  the  table,  he  looked  with  an  artist's 
eve  alon;!;  tiie  ^luncin^  river. 
"  "After  all,"  said  he.  "I  am  glad  I  am  a 
painter;  and  I  hope  I  may  live  to  be  a  great 
one." 

"  No  doubt,  if  you  live,  you  will  be  a  great 
one," cried  Lionel,  with  cordial  sincerity.  "And 
if  I,  who  can  only  just  paint  well  enough  to 
please  myself,  find  that  it  gives  a  new  charm  to 
nature — " 

"Cut  sentiment,"  quoth  Vance,  "and  go  on." 

"What,"  continued  Lionel,  unchilled  by  the 
admonitory  interruption,  "must  you  feel  who 
can  fix  a  fading  sunsliine — a  Heeting  face — on 
a  scrap  of  canvas,  and  say,  '  Sunshine  and  Beau- 
ty, live  there  forever!'" 

Vance.  "Forever!  no!  Colors  perish,  can- 
vas rots.  What  remains  to  us  of  Zeuxis?  Still 
it  is  prettily  said  on  behalf  of  the  ])oetic  side  of 
the  profession ;  there  is  a  prosaic  one — we'll 
blink  it.  Yes  ;  I  am  glad  to  be  a  painter.  But 
you  must  not  catch  the  fever  of  my  calling. 
Your  poor  mother  would  never  forgive  me  if  she 
thought  I  had  made  you  a  dauber  by  my  ex- 
ample." 

Lionel  (gloomily).  "  No.  I  shall  not  be  a 
painter!  Bat  what  can  I  be  ?  How  shall  I  ever 
build  on  the  earth  one  of  the  castles  I  have  built 
in  the  air?  Fame  looks  so  far — Fortune  so  im- 
possible !  But  one  thin 4 1  am  bent  upon"  (speak- 
ing with  knit  brow  and  clenched  teeth),  "I  will 
gain  an  independence  somehow,  and  support  my 
mother." 

Vance.  "  Your  mother  is  supported — she  has 
the  pension — " 

LiON'EL.  "Of  a  captain's  widow;  and"  (he 
adde  1,  witii  a  flushed  cheek)  "a  first  floor  that 
she  lets  to  lodj;ers  !" 

Vance.  "Xo  shame  in  that!  Peers  let  houses; 
and  on  the  Continent,  princes  let  not  only  first 
floors,  bat  fifth  and  sixth  floors,  to  say  nothing 
of  attics  and  cellars.  In  beginning  the  world, 
friend  Lionel,  if  you  don't  wish  to  get  chafed  at 
every  turn,  fold  up  your  pride  cai-efully,  put  it 
nnder  lock  and  key,  and  only  let  it  out  to  air 
upon  grand  occasions.  Pride  is  a  garment  all 
stiffs  brocade  outside,  all  grating  sackcloth  on  the 
Bide  next  to  the  skin.  Even  kings  don't  wear 
the  dalmaticum  except  at  a  coronation.  Inde- 
pendence you  desire ;  good.  But  are  you  de- 
pendent now?  Your  mother  has  given  you  an 
excellent  education,  and  you  have  already  put 
it  to  profit.  My  dear  boy,"  added  Vance,  with 
unusual  warmth,  ''  I  honor  you,  at  your  age,  on 
leaving  school,  to  have  shut  yourself  up,  trans- 
lated Greek  and  Latin  per  sheet  for  a  bookseller 
at  less  than  a  valet's  wages,  and  aH  for  the  pur- 
pose of  buying  comforts  for  your  mother ;  and 
having  a  few  ix)unds  in  your  own  pockets,  to 
rove  your  little  holiday  with  me,  and  pay  your 
share  of  the  costs!  Ah,  there  are  energy  and 
spirit  and  life  in  all  that,  Lionel,  which  will 
found  upon  rock  some  castle  iis  fine  as  any  you 
have  built  in  air.     Your  hand,  my  boy." 

This  burst  was  so  unlike  the  practical  dryness, 
or  even  the  more  unctuous  humor,  of  Frank 
Vance,  that  it  took  Lionel  by  suqjrise,  and  his 
voice  faltered  as  he  pressed  the  hand  held  out 
to  iiim.  He  answered,  •'  I  don't  desene  your 
praise,  Vance,  and  I  fear  the  pride  you  tell  me 


to  put  under  lock  and  key,  has  the  larger  share 
of  the  merit  you  ascribe  to  better  motives.  In- 
dependent?    No!     I  Imve  never  been  so." 

Vance.  "Well,  you  depend  on  a  parent — 
who,  at  seventeen,  does  not  ?" 

Lionel.  "  I  did  not  mean  my  mother ;  of 
course,  I  could  not  be  too  proud  to  take  bene- 
fits from  her.  But  the  truth  is  simjjly  this :  my 
father  had  a  relation,  not  very  near,  indeed — a 
cousin,  at  about  as  distant  a  remove,  I  fancy, 
as  a  cousin  well  can  be.  To  this  gentleman  my 
mother  wrote  when  my  poor  father  died — and 
he  was  generous,  for  it  is  he  who  paid  for  my 
schooling.  I  did  not  know  this  till  veiy  lately. 
I  had  a  vague  impression,  indeed,  that  I  had  a 
powerful  and  wealthy  kinsman  who  took  inter- 
est in  me,  but  whom  I  had  never  seen." 

Vance.  "  Never  seen  ?" 

Lionel.  "No.  And  here  comes  the  sting. 
On  leaving  school  last  Christmas,  my  mother, 
for  the  first  time,  told  me  the  extent  of  my  ob- 
ligations to  this  benefactor,  and  informed  me 
that  he  wished  to  know  my  own  choice  as  to  a 
profession — that  if  I  preferred  Church  or  Bar, 
he  would  maintain  me  at  college." 

Vance.  "  Body  o'  me!  where's  the  sting  in 
that  ?  Help  yourself  to  toddy,  my  boy,  and  take 
more  genial  views  of  life." 

Lionel.  "  You  have  not  heard  me  out.  I 
then  asked  to  see  my  benefactor's  letters  ;  and 
my  mother,  unconscious  of  the  pain  she  was 
about  to  inflict,  showed  me  not  only  the  last 
one,  but  all  she  had  received  from  him.  Oh, 
Vance,  they  were  terrible,  those  letters !  The 
first  began  by  a  dry  acquiescence  in  the  claims 
of  kindred — a  curt  proposal  to  pay  my  schooling, 
but  not  one  word  of  kindness,  and  a  stern  pro- 
nso  that  the  writer  was  never  to  see  nor  hear 
from  me.  He  wanted  no  gratitude — he  disbe- 
lieved in  all  professions  of  it.  His  favors  would 
cease  if  I  molested  him.  '  Molested'  was  the 
word ;  it  was  bread  thrown  to  a  dog." 

Vance.  "  Tut !  Only  a  rich  man's  eccentric- 
ity.    A  bachelor,  I  presume  ?" 

Lionel.  "  My  mother  says  he  has  been  mar- 
ried, and  is  a  widower." 

Vance.  "  Any  children  ?" 

Lionel.  "My  mother  says  none  living  ;  but 
I  know  little  or  nothing  about  his  family." 

Vance  looked  with  keen  scrutiny  into  tlie  face 
of  his  boy-friend,  and,  after  a  pause,  said,  dryly 
— "  Plain  as  a  pikestaffs  Your  relation  is  one 
of  those  men  who,  having  no  children,  suspect 
and  dread  the  attention  of  an  heir-presumjnive ; 
and  what  has  made  this  sting,  as  you  call  it, 
keener  to  you,  is — pardon  me — is  in  some  silly 
words  of  your  mother,  who,  in  showing  you  the 
letters,  has  hinted  to  you  that  that  heir  you 
might  be,  if  you  were  sufticiently  pliant  and 
subservient.     Am  I  not  right  ?" 

Lionel  hung  his  head,  without  reply. 

Vance  (cheeringly).  "  So,  so  ;  no  great  harm 
as  yet.  Enough  of  "the  first  letter.  What  was 
the"  last?" 

Lionel.  "  Still  more  offensive.    He,  this  kins- 
man, this  patron,  desired  ray  mother  to  spare 
him  those  references  to  her  son's  ability  and 
i  promise,  which,  though  natural  to  herself,  had 
j  slight  interest  to  him— him,  the  condescending 
i  benefactor ! — As  to  his  opinion,  what  could  I 
'  care  for  the  opinion  of  one  I  had  never  seen? 
All  that  could  sensibly  atfect  my — oh,  but  I  can 


14 


_v.i.NCE   Cemphaticallv).    "  wfthonf-  k  • 

to  maintain  me  at  college  v?h''?-P^  '^,"  °^'^^- 
ter  closed.  Luckily  DAtCir^?'?  '^  ^'^'- 
ter  of  my  school)  ihn\\t  '^  ^^^^  head-mas- 
tind  to  me,  had  ji'st  indeml    "'^'^  ^^^'^  ^■^••>- 

popula.  translatiinof^tlfe  ciSrc;"  ^^l^^^^"^^^  ^ 
mended  mc  at  mv  ^^^  '"<^  "-^assies.     He  recom- 

gaged  in  thelZtS'\'°      '  ^"'"^'^^  ^"■ 

translating  somo  of   i     f'  V°'  incapable  of 

thors-sufiec°Tohfs  '!^^^'^^ffi^"^t  ^^^i"  ''^"- 

finished  the  first  itt°r'''°"';     ^^'^^^n  I  had 

•  intrusted  to  me   m"  '  "'I!'"'  °^  '^'  ''°'^  ^'^"« 

mv  health  liS%^LT    ^'  ^'*'"'  ^^^''med  for 

reation.    Yo    weTe  fh,  T.""'''  ''^^^^^  ^°°^«  ^-^e- 

trian  tour     iCf  ^"  /«  «^'  «"'  on  a  pedes- 

™J  pocket;  and    lui    \L^^'  '""'^  P°™ds  in 

the  merriest  davs  of ly  ife ''  ^^'^^^^  ^"^^  ^^'^ 

your'S^a'lT^o  to'l'ir"  ""^  ^^"^^'^  ^^en 
him  ?"  SO  to  college  was  conveyed  to 

comS';atiL?to'^ihareVL".'T-n  "'-^  ^^^^^^^"'^ 
left  home,  and  tl  en-l  ?f  ''"  J"**  ^^^^^'^  I 
ter  from  ^hich  reT S  T^'"'''  "^  ^^^^  let- 
tract— no  th«  /  ■'/'^Pe'^ted  that  wither  nc  ev- 
it  -h  -j'  ,  '^^'^  ^™s  more  eallino-  still  f  ■ 
It  he  said,  that  if,  in  spite  of  /l  o^  i  '  ^°''  '" 
promise  that  hirl  hpir,  ^  ^'^'^  ^^'^i^^ty  and 

of  a  collete  and  ^h^  i'?  ''""f  "'^'  ^^^^  dullness 

sions  wereno^Sfst2  eSl't;  ^^VlieT^l  ^^'^^f^" 
sire  to  dictitP  tr>  r„      ,    .      ^^'  "^  had  no  de- 

no.  wi,h'„TeVl>o^:;.'''S  '""  ""■"  •■■'  '•'  ■!" 
blood,  .„<1  bore  tlMSme  of  H?"!!""'-''  ""^ 

.h.t^.jo,p«w:.-'vL'::5ti7-.'"^^^ 

Liovpr   r  "^'  -^'o*^  fake  ?" 

■L'IO^EL  (iiassionatp]\->    "-iir,  .  ,   , 

-M'hich?_ofconre,i;;T.     ?  '^''' "   so  oiJered 
the  tone  of  myToth     •     ■''      f"^' ^i^t^^ting 
evening  beforf iTf  ,?       '^l''-','  ^  ^^^^^  ^'^wn,  the 
this  cnTel  man      i1  d  nT'^ '^  ^™^*^  ^^-^'^e^f  to 
niother-did  S^t  td/licT  f1r"|T^"^^^^«  -3- 
—that,  if  he  ,™i,j,|  "^l  2'- ,  ^  '™te,  shortly 
would  not  accent  hi^  >°    ^'^P*  .™>'  gratitude,  I 
might  be-pTcl?ock'.t         ?'%'  '^'''  shoeblack  J 
fearIshoul5Kt?'h"'h/'''/  ^^*^   "^^^   "ot 
andthatlwoul^io   Jft;n"°'^  °^'  "^.>-  ^^'^e  ,• 
had  paid  him  back  all  thaT'l'°?''''  T  ^^^"•'  ^ 
felt  relieyed  from  tho  1  had  cost  him,  and 

which-whicl  -»     Tlie  boy  r  ''  ?"  ^^^^^ation 
face  with  his  hands,  and'jbC'  '"'""'^^^^ 
scoiJ'lSSnfCt""^^^'-^^-'^'^'^    to 
fairly  rose,  ."u  id     L  a "Hro  1'^'  ^};^f^ctu.l, 
him,  and  drew  him  fron    hi  ^'f"''--^^^<^  round 
ing  margin  of  the  dS      "^^'^"'  ^'^/'^"^  '^'^^-- 
the  Artitt,  almost    olcmnl  ^°™^°"'     then  said 
inner  depths  o   1  ^  char"  tt'  uJ^''  ''"^^"^  *'- 
the  man  came  forth  iml.,['     ^<  ^^-"""^  »^'""s  of 
look  roundrLe  wi;,^  th^'     'r  ^^'""^^°"'  '"'^i 
tide,   and  h'ow  '.  il in  1    tl  ''^''  ^"terrupts  the 
See,...  Where  ^fSJ^,:t;^^-^-. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


noTf^^et  nir  tnr--"^^  ^^^  --,  if 
miles  farther  on   and  the  r?r'"^""^  "      ^  ^^^ 
hridge,  which  bu  y  ?eet  low  a  '  ''  '^'""''^  ^^-^^  ^ 
side  of  that  bridie  nowSn       ''°'''"^'  b^' the 
the  men  who  rule  Sn^landr^  "  Palace;-aU 
palace.     At  the  reai  of  tW     T^  '°°"^  ^"  that 
old  Abbey,  where  SLk       ^T'^'^  soars  up  the 
of  the  nimlrtheVifiWM ''''"■  ^r^^^"'^ght 
have  found  tombs" th  re     n,vf^  '^'j  ^^  "« 
which  they  made.     Thhil    rf^     u°^  '^^  names 
on  that  bridge  with  a  w' ^  ^'Z  ^\^^  ^'"^  ^tand 
man's  steadfast  courage    AiL.t-^'^'^P^'  ^^-^tii  a 
stream,  calm  with  sJariiitfln"™ ''-"'"'" '°  ^^^^ 
the  bridge-spite  of^S'lSd^pSfs  "'^  ^"^'^^''^ 

i^p^^™;;;:tc^*^~g^his 

tened  in  his  ^ye'^'^^^'^''^^^  '^''^'  ^ew  still  glis! 


CHAPTER  V. 


er'sS-::iS;i^i;-r-s^rS: 

the  dash  of  he  o^rr'Ti^  '^'"'^'^^  ^"  time  to 
bank  of  garden-lrou ml  .  ^^'  '?°  "^"^^  to  the 
^vhich  fahies  might  h,eT"f^^  ^"^^^  tuif,  on 
villas  neyer  seefout "  f  eXT'^  '  ^^",^^ 
windows  of  the  vilH  thl  i;  w  ,  -^™tn  the 
ily;  oyer  the  blnS  7l  ^  ^' •^^^'^'"^^  «tead- 
hnng  large  w'Ltt^^a fclf  .\T'  /'^  "^^^r, 
brushed  aside  their  nend«n;>,^  '  ^^'^  ^""^^  g^ntlv 
rested  in  a  grassy  co4  ^°"S^''  ^^^^  ^"^nce 

And    "Paith"    «mVi    +1,       .     . 
.  ^-ith,"saidt,]ilh   J\\^,^-f'  .g-nv- 
is  time  we  should  bestow  nf'     '^"^"^^^gaiV  '"it 
thePvemorsele^s  Pnrnr,        ^  ^f^^'^™rds  more  on 
What  a  cock-and  a  bull  s.   ''^^^'^^dit's  Child! 

ns!    He  must Se  thi  t"'^'      '  ^"'^^^^^  '^^^ 
Lio.vKL  (roused)      ^8^^'/^^  precious  green." 

derful  in  the  ston-    „tj'-''^^^e  nothing  so  won- 

rou  must  allow  ti'.tr^   ""^^^  that  is  sad. 

good  actor-vou  beSml  f  •.°'"-'  ^-"^"^  ''^en  a 
at  his  attitude  and  r  ^^^"^  ^-^"^^^^  ^^erely 
that  he  s  ould  haye  hi;  '^"'"'■^''  ^^^^^fore^, 
chance  on  ?he  London  st?  '""'''''K'^  tiy  his 
that  he  mar  ha.e  ™y  b^'~"°*i"-^P^""^''^W 
train,  and  so  lo  t  iS  chan  .  r'"  ''  ^''  '^^ 
then,  that  he  shnn Ir  •     ^oreyer— natural, 

little  gra?ddind- nf;r-:/°:?4":r".  ^"i!  p«- 

treated,  and  his  nride      ,./  i       '.  ^''^^'    ^^^rdly 
escape."  ^      '^  ^""^'  ^^^  should  wish  to 

shouts' w^iitfol,':;"^  T''""'  ^''^"  ^"'  ^^'^^  1- 
pounds-the  Band  t'    ^.^^^^^"r  pockets  three 

-hat  is  not  pr?babt'-th.n1.5"r1'/,  ''''  ^'^^ 
posed  of  that  cleycr  c  i  d  t,  '^'""^^l^"^^  dis- 

Ic„n"i;:t,./;-.;bci.„„e,,,,ordi„.„.chiM. 

tool-  nnt  1  •   -^  "  has  interested  me  "     Hr. 

tens:"^.te^--f  "^T'^"  counting  ils  con! 

X  ha>e  nearly  three  pounds  left,"  he 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


15 


cried,  joyously.  "  £2  18s.  if  I  give  up  the 
thought  of  a  "lonjrer  excursion  with  you,  and 
go  quietly  home." 

Vance.  '"Aud  not  pay  your  share  of  the  bill 
yonder';:'" 

LioNKL.  "Ah,  I  forgot  that!  But  come,  I 
am  not  too  proud  to  borrow  from  you,  and  it  is 
not  for  a  selfish  purpose." 

Vanck.  '•  Borrow  from  me,  Cato !  That 
comes  of  falling  in  with  bandits  and  their  chil- 
dren. No,  but  let  us  look  at  the  thing  like 
men  of  sense.  One  story  is  good  till  another  is 
told.  I  will  call  by  myself  on  Kugge  to-mor- 
row, and  hear  what  he  says ;  and  then,  if  we 
judge  favorably  to  the  Cobbler's  version,  we 
will  go  at  nigiit  and  talk  with  the  Cobbler's 
lodgers;  and  1  daresay,"  added  Vance,  kindly, 
but  with  a  sigh — "I  daresay  the  three  pounds 
will  be  coaxed  out  of  me !  After  all,  her  head 
is  worth  it.     I  want  an  idea  for  'J'itania." 

Lionel  (joyously).  "My  dear  Vance,  you  are 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

Vance.  "  Small  compliment  to  human-kind. 
Take  the  oars — it  is  your  turn  now." 

Lionel  obeyed ;  the  boat  once  more  danced 
along  the  tide — thoro'  reeds,  thoro'  waves,  skirt- 
ing tlie  grassy  islet — out  into  pale  moonlight. 
They  talked  but  by  tits  and  starts.  What  of? 
—  a  thousand  things.  Bright  young  hearts, 
eloquent  young  tongues!  No  sins  in  the  past; 
hopes  gleaming  through  the  future.  Oh  sum- 
mer nights,  on  the  glass  of  starry  waves  !  Oh 
Youth,  Youth! 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Wherein  the  Historian  tracks  the  Public  Characters  that 
fret  their  hour  on  the  stage,  into  tlie  bosom  of  private 
life. — The  reader  is  invited  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion 
which  may  often,  in  periods  of  perplexity,  restore  ease 
to  his  mind ;  viz.,  that  if  man  will  reflect  on  all  the 
hopes  he  has  nourished,  all  the  fears  he  has  admitted, 
all  the  projects  he  has  formed,  the  wisest  thing  he  can 
do,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  with  hope,  fear,  and  project, 
is  to  let  them  end  with  the  chapter — in  smoke. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the 
following  day.  The  exhibition  at  Mr.  Rugge's 
theatre  liad  closed  for  the  season  in  that  village, 
for  it  was  the  conclusion  of  the  Fair.  The  final 
performance  had  been  begun  and  ended  some- 
what earlier  than  on  former  nights.  The  thea- 
tre was  to  be  cleared  from  the  ground  by  day- 
break, and  the  whole  comjiany  to  proceed  on- 
ward betimes  in  the  morning.  Another  Fair 
awaited  them  in  an  adjoining  county,  and  they 
had  a  long  journey  before  them. 

Gentleman  Waife  and  his  Juliet  Araminta 
had  gone  to  their  lodgings  over  the  Cobbler's 
stall.  The  rooms  were  homely  enough,  but  had 
an  air  not  only  of  the  comfortable,  but  the  pic- 
turesque. The  little  sitting-room  was  very  old- 
fashioned— paneled  in  wood  that  had  once'  been 
painted  blue — with  a  quaint  chimney-piece  that 
reached  to  the  ceiling.  That  part  o'f  the  house 
sjKtke  of  the  time  of  Charles  I.  It  might  have 
been  tenanted  by  a  religious  Roundhead ;  and 
framed-in  over  the  low  door  there  was  a  grim 
faded  portrait  of  a  pinched -faced  saturnine 
man,  with  long  lank  hair,  starched  band,  and 
a  length  of  upper-lip  that  betokened  relentless 
obstinacy  of  character,  and  might  have  curled 
in  sullen  glee   at  the  monarch's  scaffold,  or 


preached  an  interminable  sermon  to  the  stout 
I'rotector.  On  a  table,  under  the  deej)-sunk 
window,  were  neatly  arrayed  a  few  sober-look- 
ing old  books;  you  would  find  among  them  Col- 
lei/'s  Astrolof/i/,  Owen  Kelt/utm^s  liesolces,  Ulan- 
vilk  0)1  Witches,  The  J'ilijiiiii's  J^rvyress,  an  early 
edition  of  Paradise  Lost,  and  an  old  Bible  ;  also 
two  fiower-pots  of  clay  brightly  reddened,  and 
containing  stocks ;  also  two  small  woi-sted  rugs, 
on  one  of  which  rested  a  carved  cocoa-nut,  on 
the  other  an  egg-shaped  ball  of  crystal — that 
last  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  Cobbler's  visionary 
soul.  A  door  left  wide  open  communicated  with 
an  inner  room  (very  low  was  its  ceiling),  in  which 
the  Bandit  slept,  if  the  severity  of  his  persecu- 
tors permitted  him  to  sleep.  In  the  corner  of 
the  sitting-room,  near  that  door,  was  a  small 
horse-hair  sofa,  which,  by  the  aid  of  sheets  and 
a  needlework  coverlid,  did  duty  for  a  bed,  and 
was  consigned  to  the  Bandit's  child.  Here  the 
tenderness  of  the  Cobbler's  heart  was  visible, 
for  over  the  coverlid  were  strewed  sprigs  of  lav- 
ender, and  leaves  of  vervain — the  last,  be  it 
said,  to  induce  hapjn'  dreams,  and  scare  away 
Avitchcraft  and  evil  spirits.  On  another  table, 
near  the  fire-place,  the  child  was  busied  in  set- 
ting out  the  tea-things  for  her  grandfather.  She 
had  left  in  the  property-room  of  the  theatre  her 
robe  of  spangles  and  tinsel,  and  appeared  now 
in  a  simple  frock.  Sjhe  had  no  longer  the  look 
of  Titania,  but  that  of  a  lively,  active,  affection- 
ate human  child;  nothing  theatrical  about  her 
now,  yet  still,  in  her  graceful  movements,  so 
nimble  but  so  noiseless,  in  her  slight  fair  hands, 
in  her  transparent  coloring,  there  was  Nature's 
own  lady — that  something  which  strikes  us  all 
as  well-born  and  high-bred ;  not  that  it  neces- 
sarily is  so — the  semblances  of  aristocracy,  in 
female  childhood  more  especially,  are  often  de- 
lusive. The  souvenance  flower  wrought  into  the 
collars  of  princes  springs  up  wild  on  field  and 
fell. 

Gentleman  Waife,  wrapped  negligently  in  a 
gray  dressing-gown,  and  seated  in  an  old  leath- 
ern easy-chair,  was  evidently  out  of  sorts.  He 
did  not  seem  to  heed  the  little  preparations  for 
his  comfort,  but,  resting  his  cheek  on  his  right 
hand,  his  left  drooped  on  his  crossed  knees — an 
attitude  rarely  seen  in  a  man  when  his  heart  is 
light  and  his  spirits  high.  His  lips  moved — he 
was  talking  to  himself.  Though  he  had  laid 
aside  his  theatrical  bandage  over  both  eyes,  he 
wore  a  black  patch  over  one,  or  rather  where 
one  had  been  ;  the  eye  exposed  was  of  singular 
beauty,  dark  and  brilliant.  For  the  rest,  the 
man  "had  a  striking  countenance,  rugged,  and 
rather  ugly  than  othenvise,  but  by  no  means 
unprepossessing ;  full  of  lines  and  ^mnkles  and 
strong  muscle,  with  large  lips  of  wondrous  pli- 
ancy, and  an  asjiect  of  wistful  sagacity,  that,  no 
doubt,  on  occasion  could  become  exquisitely 
comic — diT  comedy — the  comedy  that  makes 
others  roar  when  the  comedian  himself  is  as 
grave  as  a  judge. 

You  might  see  in  his  countenance,  when  quite 
in  its  natural  repose,  that  Sorrow  had  passed  by 
there ;  yet  the  instant  the  countenance  broke 
into  play,  you  would  think  that  Sorrow  must 
have  been  sent  about  her  business  as  soon  as 
the  respect  due  to  that  visitor,  so  accustomed 
to  have  her  own  way,  would  permit.  Though 
the  man  was  old,  you  could  not  call  him  aged. 


16 


Orie-eyed  and  crippled,  still,  marking  the  rn,« 

seal cely  tailed  him  broken  or  infirm.  And  hence 
there  was  a  certain  indescribable  pathos   n  his 
Se  a,K"""'t'  '^  ''  ^^-'-  I^ad^randJc^  o 
reidhe,  .  .7'  ^''^^'^^^^'-^  i"  ^'^ch  migh    be 
read  liei  agencies  on  career  and  mind— plucked 

?org-e's  ?'"  "^^^"^^-»f^.  ^l^ortened  oie  linb 
for  htes  progress,  ^-et  left  whim  sparklin.r  out 
H.  the  eye  she  had  spared,  and  a  iol  t  Se.rt's 
wid  spring  in  the  hmb  she  had  maimei  no 

coaxS'h''  ^/■'"'^^'  '°^^'"  ^^^'^1  '^'  J«tle^i,-1, 
coaxingl^  ;    'your  tea  will  get  quite  cold-  vo„  • 

S,"  "''^-''  ''^"'^  ^''^  '''  ^"'^^ '-  nice  egg-C 
Meile  says  you  may  be  sure  it  is  new  laid 
Come,  don't  let    that  hateful  man  ft-e    you 
smde  on  your  own  Sophy-come  "  ^      ' 

tone     '^f'r '^  ^^"-  7""'^^'  ^"   ^  J^o"o^^  "nder 
unu  ,  n    ''T^  ^^^^'^  ^"  the  world." 
Un !  Grandy." 

Dehghtful  prospect,  not  to  be  indul-ed  •  for  if 
In  ??  '^  P^^'^  ^'  °"^  end  of  thefop;  whit 
wouW  chance  to  my  Sophy,  left  forlor^'at  the 

"  Don't  talk  so,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  sorrv 
to  have  taken  care  of  me."  ^  ""  aie  sorry 

.  ''^^'■'^  of  thee,  O  child!  and  what  rirp  v  Tf 
IS  thou  who  takest  care  of  me  Put  tSy  hLds 
from  my  mouth;   sit  down,  darlin..   tW    on 

orten  said  that  thou  wouldst  be  glad  to  bp  n„t 

wt."ht,.tif  "-^^  f- -e  l-mbler^ild 
naiuci  .  tnmk  well — is  it  so  ? 

II Oh!  yes,  indeed,  grandfather." 

Ao  more  tinsel  dresses  and  flowery  wreaths  • 

no  more  applause;  no  more  of  the  dei  divin; 

stage  excitement ;  the  heroine  and  fah-y  vanish 

ed;  only  a    ittle  commonplace  c Inld  [n  d"m  y 

gingham,  with  a  purblind  cripple  for  t"iy  sole 

ratSr'  "'"'""''V  J"lieti'raminta  ivapt 
rated  evermore  into  little  Sophy  i"  ^ 

Phv.  ^;S"i'4te".,f ''""""""' """=^- 

"What  would  make  it  nice?"  asked  the  come 

Jriends,   thev   were   ennnlc    ti,-.  ■'■        , 

affront  you,  we  should  be  all  by  oursel  es  ^?n 

piav  in  the  fields,  and  gather  daisies  •  nnd  T 
could  run  after  buttei-flie.^  and  when  I  am  t"red 
I  s  ould  come  here,  where  I  am  now,  Z  t  me 

P  et  y  vcV:  ""'^  'T  ^^'^^'^  *^"  ^-  storieVand 
pretty  .erses,  and  teach  me  to  write   a  little 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


and  oh,  would  it  not  be  nice  t"  '  '°  '^"^ '' 

stars-with  all  my  heait     ^?,/t  "  ^''^ 

not   go  to  the   ^l\  ^  \L  l}'^  ^'^^'^  ^i" 

of  me      Anr  fj,-^     1,    ,  ^^"^  workhouse  instead 
we^o.'"  °"^^  '^""^  ^'^^^  "°tl^i"g  to  eat, 

fbr?""!  ^'"n"'^-^'  ^'""^  ^^^'°  ^^^id  every  day  since 
t^vn  T  r^  ■'''''  '""'^  "f'er  <^oniing  heie     ha? 
you  had  three  pounds,  we  could  get  a w  and 
Ine  by  ourselves,  and  make  a  fortune  '^     ^ 

stand^   Ar^i^e^ttttiir-^^firfh'-    ^f  ^^ 
should  be  free  of  thifthn-ce'  eSb  e'Str 

aLS^=^^;s;:rS-^^rtKT 

dwell  in  towns,  and  exhibit  -"  '''^  ^'^ 

bvus^on-owfr'  """^'^  '"  ^"^"^  «°P^>''  --g-d 

"No." 

;;  And  we  should  be  quite  alone,  you  and  I  ?" 

.  Hum !  there  would  be  a  third."  ' 

y^^.^^nkingofjoining\^^;rLt'?;;: 

s2t'7^^T  ^"^^.-'^  """^^^^  relaxed).  "  A  well- 
Sluck     th?!''^"^"   gentlewoman'.      But  no 

SoPHT    UT        ^Tf '  ''""^^  "«t  buy  her." 
muchfor'the  m'"  ^^m  "^*'^"*  ^  I  don't  care  so 
But    oh"  ^'/i'^^^id-she's  dead  and  stuffed. 

sSted  Boy!''    "■  ""''"^'  "  P^^^^^?^  ''-  the 
Mr.  Waife.   "  Calm  your  sanc^uine  imacinn 

ever  t  ft  .     '•°™P''^"^o».  whatsoever  or  whoso- 
will  like  "  '""^P"^^°^  ™«y  be,  wiU  be  one  you 

head^  '^°"t  ^f 'r";  ''"  ^""'^  ^«I^'^-^'  ^*'^^^"g  ^er 

.  ; ,      I, °"'^'  ^'^e  yo"-     But  who  is  it  V' 

Alas  !     said  Mr.  Waife,  "  it  is  no  use  pam- 

penng  ourselves  with   vain  hopes;    the  three 

irb?uleV°'  ^°"'??°T"g-     You 'heard  wia^ 

wanted  n  t^l-?^'  '^'^'  '^^'  '^'^  gentleman  who 
T^  anted  to  take  your  portrait  had  called  on  him 
his  morning,  and  offered  10s.  for  a  sitting™ 
that  IS,  6s.  for  you,  5s.  for  Euffge  •  and  Ruao-P 
thought  the  terms  reasonable.''  ^^ 

"  But  I  said  I  would  not  sit." 
'  And  when  you  did  say  it,  you  heard  Rugge's 
la iguage  to  me-to  you.     And  now  we  must 
think  of  packing  up,  and  be  off  at  dawn  mih 

■  l^  x:  "'^'"  ^'^^''^  the  comedian,  color- 
ing nigh  '  I  must  again  parade,  to  boors  and 
c  owns,  ,h,s  mangled  form  ;  again  set  mvself 
out  as  a  spectacle  of  bodily  infirmity-nian's 
last  degradation.     And  this  I  have  c'ome  to- 

will  ^l!;  ".?'  ^'^^'^^y^  it  will  not  last  long!  we 
NMlI  i?et  the  three  pounds.     We  have  always 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


17 


hoped  on  I — hope  still !  And  besides,  I  am  sure 
those  gentlemen  will  come  here  to-night.  Mr. 
Merle  said  they  would,  at  ten  o'clock.  It  is 
near  ten  now,  and  your  tea  cold  as  a  stone." 

Slie  hung  on  his  neck  caressingly,  kissing  his 
furrowed  brow,  and  leaving  a  tear  there,  and 
thus  coaxed  him  till  he  set  to  quietly  at  his 
meal ;  and  Sophy  shared  it,  though  she  had  no 
appetite  in  sorrowing  for  him — but  to  keep  him 
company  ;  that  done,  she  lighted  his  pipe  with 
the  best  canaster — his  sole  luxury  and  expense  ; 
but  she  always  contrived  that  he  should  afford  it. 

Mr.  Waife'  drew  a  long  whiff,  and  took  a  more 
serene  view  of  affairs.  He  who  doth  not  smoke 
hath  either  known  no  great  griefs,  or  refuseth 
himself  the  softest  consolation,  next  to  that 
which  comes  from  heaven.  "  What  softer  than 
woman  ?"  whispers  the  young  reader.  Young 
reader,  woman  teases  as  well  as  consoles.  Wo- 
man makes  half  the  sorrows  which  she  boasts 
the  privilege  to  soothe.  Woman  consoles  tis,  it 
is  true,  while  we  are  young  and  handsome ; 
when  we  are  old  and  ugly,  woman  snubs  and 
scolds  us.  On  the  whole,  then,  woman  in  this 
scale,  the  weed  in  that,  Jupiter,  hang  out  thy 
balance,  and  weigh  them  both ;  and  if  thou  give 
the  preference  to  woman,  all  I  can  say  is,  the 
next  time  Juno  ruffles  thee — O  Jupiter,  try  the 
weed ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Historian,  in  pursuance  of  his  stern  dutie.?,  reveals 
to  the  scorn  of  future  ages  some  of  the  occult  practices 
which  discredit  the  March  of  Light  In  the  Xineteenth 
C'entur)-. 

"Mat  I  come  in?"  asked  the  Cobbler  out- 
side the  door. 

"  Certainly  come  in,"  said  Gentleman  Waife. 
Sophy  looked  wistfully  at  the  aperture,  and 
sighed  to  see  that  Merle  was  alone.  She  crept 
up  to  him. 

"Will  they  not  come?"  she  whispered. 

"I  hope  so,  pretty  one;  it  ben't  ten  yet." 

"Take  a  pipe,  Merle,"  said  Gentleman  Waife, 
with  a  grand  Comedian  air. 

"No,  thank  you  kindly;  I  just  looked  in  to 
ask  if  I  could  do  any  thing  for  ye,  in  case — in 
case  ye  must  go  to-morrow." 

"  Nothing ;  our  luggage  is  small,  and  soon 
packed.  Sophy  has  the  money  to  discharge  the 
meaner  pait  of  our  debt  to  you." 

"  I  don't  value  that,"  said  the  Cobbler,  color- 
ing. 

"  But  we  value  your  esteem,"  said  Mr.  Waife, 
with  a  smile  that  would  have  become  a  field- 
marshal.  "And  so.  Merle,  you  think,  if  I  am 
a  broken-down  vagrant,  it  must  be  put  to  the 
long  account  of  the  celestial  bodies  I" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  returned  the  Cobbler, 
solemnly.  "  I  wish  you  would  give  me  date  and 
place  of  Sophy's  birth — that's  what  I  want — I'd 
»ake  her  horiyscope.     I'm  sure  she'd  be  lucky." 

"  I'd  rather  not,  please,"  said  Sophy,  timidly. 

"Rather  not? — very  odd.     Why?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know  the  future." 

"That  is  odder  and  odder,"  quoth  the  Cob- 
bler, staring;  "I  never  heard  a  girl  say  that 
afore." 

"Wait    till    she's    older,    Mr.    Merle,"   said 
Waife;  "girls  don't  want  to  know  the  future 
till  they  want  to  be  married." 
B 


"  Summat  in  that,"  said  the  Cobbler.  He 
took  up  the  crystal.  "Have  you  looked  into 
this  ball,  pretty  one,  as  I  bade  ye?" 

"  Yes,  two  or  three  times." 

"Hal  and  what  did  you  see?" 

"My  own  face  made  very  long,"  said  Sophy 
— "  as  long  as  that" — stretching  out  her  hands. 

The  Cobbler  shook  his  head  dolefully,  and, 
screwing  up  one  eye,  applied  the  other  to  the 
mystic  ball. 

^Ir.  Waife.  "  Perhaps  you  will  see  if  those 
two  gentlemen  are  coming." 

SoPHT.  "Do,  do!  and  if  they  will  give  us 
three  pounds!" 

The  Cobbler  (triumphantly).  "  Then  you  do 
care  to  know  the  future,  after  all  ?" 

Sophy.  "  Yes,  so  far  as  that  goes  ;  but  don't 
look  any  farther,  pray." 

The  Cobbler  (intent  upon  the  ball,  and 
speaking  slowly,  and  in  jerks).  "  A  mist  now. 
Ha!  an  arm  with  a  besom — sweeps  all  before  it." 

Sophy  (frightened). — "  Send  it  away,  please." 

Cobbler.  "It  is  gone.  Ha!  there's  Rugge 
— looks  verj'  angry — savage,  indeed." 

Waife.   "  Good  sign  that  I  proceed." 

Cobbler.  "Shakes  his  fist;  gone.  Ha!  a 
young  man,  boyish,  dark  hair." 

Sophy  (clapping  her  hands).  "That  is  the 
young  gentleman — the  very  young  one,  I  mean 
— with  the  kind  eves;  is  he  coming? — is  he,  is 
he  ?" 

Waife.  "Examine  his  pockets!  do  yon  see 
there  three  pounds  ?" 

Cobbler  (testily).  "Don't be  a  interrupting. 
Ha !  he  is  talking  with  another  gentleman, 
bearded." 

Sophy  (whispering  to  her  grandfather).  "  The 
old  young  gentleman." 

Cobbler  (putting  down  the  crv'stal,  and  with 
great  decision).  "They  are  coming  here  ;  I  see'd 
them  at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  by  the  pubhc- 
house,  two  minutes'  walk  to  this  door."  He 
took  out  a  great  silver  watch  :  "Look,  Sophy, 
when  the  minute-hand  gets  there  (or  before,  if 
they  walk  briskly),  you  will  hear  them  knock." 

Sophy  clasped  her  hands  in  mute  suspense, 
half-credulous,  half-doubting ;  then  she  went 
and  opened  the  room-door,  and  stood  on  the 
landing-place  to  listen. 

Merle  approached  the  Comedian,  and  said,  in 
a  low  voice,  "I  wish  for  your  sake  she  had  the 
gift." 

Waife.  "  The  gift  I — the  three  pounds ! — so 
do  I !" 

Cobbler.  "Pooh!  worth  a  hundred  times 
three  pounds  ;  the  gift — the  spirituous  gift." 

Waife.  "Spirituous!  don't  like  the  epithet 
— smells  of  gin!" 

Cobbler.  "  Spirituotis  gift  to  see  in  the 
crystal :  if  she  had  that,  she  might  make  your 
fortune." 

Gentleman  Waife  (with  a  sudden  change  of 
I  countenance).  '•  Ah !  I  never  thought  of  that. 
'  But  if  she  has  not  the  gift,  I  could  teach  it  her 
I  —eh  ?" 

I  The  Cobbler  (indignantly).  "  I  did  not  think 
\  to  hear  this  from  you,  Mr.  Waife.  Teach  her 
— you!  make  her  an  impostor,  and  of  the  wick- 
!  edest  kind,  inventing  lies  between  earth  and 
them  as  dwell  in  the  seven  spheres !  Fie !  No, 
:  if  she  hasn't  the  gift  natural,  let  her  alone ; 
i  what  here  is  not  heaven-sent,  is  devil-taught." 


u 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Waife  (awed,  but  dubious).  "  Then  you  real- 
ly think  you  saw  all  that  you  described,  in  that 
glass  egg  ?" 

Cobbler.  "Think! — am  I  a  liar?  I  spoke 
truth,  and  the  proof  is  there!" — Eat-tat  went 
the  knocker  at  the  door. 

"  The  two  minutes  are  just  up,"  said  the  Cob- 
bler; and  Cornelius  Agrippa  could  not  have 
said  it  with  more  wizardly  effect. 

"  They  are  come,  indeed,"  said  Sophy,  re- 
entering the  room  softly;  "I  hear  their  voices 
at  the  threshold." 

The  Cobbler  passed  by  in  silence,  descended 
the  stairs,  and  conducted  Vance  and  Lionel 
into  the  Comedian's  chamber;  there  he  left 
them,  his  brow  overcast.  Gentleman  Waife  had 
displeased  him  sorely. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

Showing  tlie  arts  by  ■vvhicli  a  man,  however  high  in  the 
air  Nature  may  have  formed  his  nose,  may  be  led  by 
that  nose,  and  in  directions  perversely  opposite  to  those 
which,  in  following  his  nose,  he  might  be  supposed  to 
take;  and  therefore,  that  nations  the  most  liberally 
endowed  with  practical  good  sense,  and  in  conceit 
thereof,  cai-rying  their  noses  the  most  horizontally 
aloof,  when  they  come  into  conference  with  nations 
more  skilled  in  diplomacy,  and  more  practiced  in 
"stage-play,"'  end  by  the  surrender  of  the  precise  ob- 
ject whicli'  it  was  intended  they  should  surrender  be- 
fore they  laid  their  noses  together. 

We  all  know  that  Demosthenes  said,  Every 
thing  in  oratory  was  acting — stage-play.  Is  it 
in  oratory  alone  that  the  saying  holds  good  ? 
Apply  it  to  all  circumstances  of  life — "stage- 
play,  stage-pla)-,  stage-i)lay !" — only  ars  est  celare 
artcm,  conceal  the  art.  Gleesome  in  soul  to  be- 
hold his  visitors,  calculating  already  on  the 
three  pounds  to  be  extracted  from  them,  seeing 
in  that  hope  the  crisis  in  his  own  checkered  ex- 
istence, ]\lr.  Waife  rose  from  his  seat  in  superb 
upocrisia  or  stage-play,  and  asked,  with  mild 
dignity — "To  -what  am  I  indebted,  gentlemen, 
for  the  honor  of  yoiu*  visit?" 

In  spite  of  his  nose,  even  Vance  was  taken 
aback.  Pope  says  that  Lord  Bolingbroke  had 
"  the  nobleman  air."  A  great  comedian  Lord 
Bolingbroke  surely  was.  But,  ah,  had  Pope 
seen  Gentleman  Waife !  Taking  advantage  of 
the  impression  he  had  created,  the  actor  added, 
with  the  finest  imaginable  breeding — "But pray 
be  seated ;"  and,  once  seeing  them  seated,  re- 
sumed his  easy-chair,  and  felt  himself  master  of 
the  situation. 

"Hum  !"  said  Vance,  recovering  his  self-pos- 
session, after  a  pause — "hum!" 

"  Hem !"  re-echoed  Gentleman  Waife ;  and 
the  two  men  eyed  each  other  much  in  the  same 
way  as  Admiral  Napier  might  have  eyed  the 
fort  of  Cronstadt,  and  the  fort  of  Cronstadt  have 
eyed  Admiral  Napier. 

Lionel  struck  in  with  that  youthful  boldness 
which  plays  the  deuce  with  all  dignified,  stra- 
tegical science. 

"  You  must  be  aware  why  we  come,  Sir ;  IMr. 
Merle  will  have  explained.  My  friend,  a  dis- 
tinguished artist,  wished  to  make  a  sketch,  if 
you  do  not  object,  of  this  young  lady's  verj' — " 
"  Pretty  little  face,"  quoth  Vance,  taking  up 
the  discourse.  "  Mr.  Rugge,  this  morning,  was 
willing — I  understand  that  your  grandchild  re- 
fused.    We  are  come  here  to  see  if  she  will 


be  more  complaisant  under  your  own  roof,  or 
under  Mr.  Merle's,  Avhich,  I  take  it,  is  the  same 
thing  for  the  present" — Sophy  had  sidled  up  to 
Lionel.  He  might  not  have  been  flattered  if 
lie  knew  why  she  preferred  him  to  Vance.  She 
looked  on  him  as  a  boy — a  fellow-child — and 
an  instinct,  moreover,  told  her,  that  more  easily 
through  him  than  his  shrewd-looking,  bearded 
guest  could  she  attain  the  object  of  her  cupidity 
— "three  pounds!" 

"Three  pounds!"  whispered  Sophy,  ^^ith  the 
tones  of  an  angel,  into  Lionel's  thrilling  ear. 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Sir,  I  will  be  frank  with  you." 
At  that  ominous  commencement  Mr.  Vance  re- 
coiled, and  mechanically  buttoned  his  trowsers 
pocket.  INIr.  Waife  noted  the  gesture  with  his 
one  eye,  and  proceeded  cautiously,  feeling  his 
way,  as  it  were,  toward  the  interior  of  the  re- 
cess thus  protected.  "My  grandchild  declined 
your  flattering  proposal  with  my  full  approba- 
tion. She  did  not  consider — neither  did  I — that 
the  managerial  rights  of  Mr.  llugge  entitled 
him  to  the  moiety  of  her  face — off  the  stage." 
The  Comedian  paused,  and  Mltli  a  voice,  the 
mimic  drollery  of  which  no  hoarseness  could 
altogether  mar,  chanted  the  old  line, 

" '  3Iy  face  is  my  fortune,  Sir,'  she  said." 

Vance  smiled — Lionel  laughed;  Sophy  nes- 
tled still  nearer  to  the  boy. 

Gentleman  W-wfe  (with  pathos  and  dignity). 
"  You  see  before  you  an  old  man  ;  one  way  of 
life  is  the  same  to  me  as  another.  But  she — 
do  you  think  Mr.  Eugge's  stage  the  right  place 
for  her?" 

Vance.  "  Certainly  not.  "WHiy  did  yon  not  in- 
troduce her  to  the  London  manager  who  would 
have  engaged  yourself?" 

Waife  could  not  conceal  a  sliglit  change  of 
countenance.  "How  do  I  know  she  would  have 
succeeded  ?  She  had  never  then  trod  the  boards. 
Besides,  what  strikes  you  as  so  good  in  a  village 
show  may  be  poor  enough  in  a  metropolitan  the- 
atre. Gentlemen,  I  did  my  best  for  her — you 
can  not  think  otherwise,  since  she  maintains  me! 
I  am  no  CEdipus,  yet  she  is  my  Antigone." 

Vance.  "You  know  the  classics.  Sir.  Mr. 
Merle  said  you  were  a  scholar ! — read  Sophocles 
in  his  native  Greek,  I  presume.  Sir  ?" 

Mr.  Waife.  "  You  jeer  at  the  unfortunate ; 
I  am  used  to  it." 

Vance  (confused).  "I  did  not  mean  to  wound 
you  —  I  beg  pardon.  But  your  language  and 
manner  are  not  what — what  one  miglit  expect 
to  find  in  a— in  a — Bandit  persecuted  by  a  re- 
morseless Baron." 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Sir,  you  say  you  are  an  artist. 
Have  you  heard  no  tales  of  your  professional 
brethren — men  of  genius  the  liighest,  who  won 
fame  which  I  never  did,  and  failed  of  fortune 
as  I  have  done  ?  Their  own  fault,  jierhaps — 
improvidence,  wild  habits  — ignorance  of  tlic 
way  how  to  treat  life  and  deal  with  their  fellow- 
men  ;  such  fault  may  have  been  mine,  too.  I 
sufler  for  it ;  no  matter — I  ask  none  to  save  me. 
You  are  a  painter — you  would  place  her  features 
on  your  canvas- — you  would  have  her  rank  among 
your  own  creations.  She  may  become  a  ];art  of 
your  immortality.  Princes  may  gaze  on  the 
effigies  of  the  innocent,  happy  childhood,  to 
which  your  colors  lend  imperishable  glow.  They 
may  ask  who  and  what  was  this  fair  creature? 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


19 


Will  yoa  answer,  '  One  whom  I  found  in  tinsel, : 
and  so  left,  sore  that  she  would  die  in  rags  I' — 
Save  her  1" 

Lionel  drew  forth  his  purse,  and  poured  its 
contents  on  the  table.  Vance  covered  them 
with  his  broad  hand,  and  swept  them  into  his 
own  jKJcket  I  At  that  sinister  action  Waife  felt 
his  heart  sink  into  his  shoes ;  but  his  face  was  ' 
calm  as  a  Roman's,  only  he  resumed  his  pipe 
with  a  prolonged  and  testy  whiff. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  to  take  the  portrait,  and 
it  is  I  who  will  pay  for  it,"  said  Vance.  '•  I 
understand  that  you  have  a  pressing  occasion 
for — ■'  ''Three  jxjunds  I"  muttered  Sophy, 
sturdily,  through  the  tears  which  her  grand- 
fathers pathos  had  drawn  forth  from  her 
downcast  ieyes  —  "Three  pounds  —  three  —  ' 
three."  | 

"You  shall  have  them.  But  listen  ;  I  meant 
only  to  take  a  sketch — I  must  now  have  a  fin- 
ished portrait.  I  can  not  take  this  by  candle- 
light. Yon  must  let  me  come  here  to-morrow ; 
and  yet  to-morrow,  I  understand,  you  meant  to 
leave?" 

Waife.  "  If  you  will  generously  bestow  on 
us  the  sum  you  say,  we  shall  not  leave  the  vil- 
lage till  you  have  completed  your  picture.  It  is 
Mr.  Uugge  and  his  company  we  will  leave." 

Vance.  "  And  may  I  venture  to  ask  what  you 
propose  to  do  toward  a  new  livelihood  for  your- 
self and  your  grandchild,  by  the  help  of  a  sum 
which  is  certainly  much  for  we  to  pay — enor- 
mous, I  might  say.  quoad  me — but  small  for  a 
capital  whereon  to  set  up  a  business?"' 

Waife.  "  Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  answer  that , 
\er\  natural  question  at  present.  Let  me  as- 
sure you  that  that  precise  sum  is  wanted  for  an 
investment  which  promises  her  and  myself  an 
easy  existence.  But  to  insure  my  scheme  I 
must  keep  it  secret.     Do  you  believe  me  ?"  . 

'•  I  do  I"  cried  Lionel ;  and  Sophy,  whom,  by 
this  time  he  had  drawn  upon  his  lap,  put  her  \ 
arm  gratefully  round  his  neck.  | 

'•  There  is  your  money.  Sir,  beforehand,"  said 
Vance,  declining  downward  his  betrayed  and  ' 
resentful  nose,  and  depositing  three  sovereigns 
on  the  table.  ; 

•'And  how  do  you  know,"  said  Waife,  smil-  j 
ing,  "that  I  may  not  be  off  to-night  with  your  \ 
money  and  your  model  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Vance,  curtly,  "I  think  it  is  on 
the  cards.  Still,  as  John  Kemble  said  when  re- 
buked for  too  large  an  alms, 

'  It  is  not  often  that  I  do  these  things. 
But  when  1  do,  I  do  them  handsomely.' '' 

"  Well  applied,  and  well  delivered.  Sir,"  said  ' 
the  Comedian,  "  only  you  should  put  a  little 
more  emphasis  on  the  word  rfo." 

••  Did  I  not  put  enough  ?  I  am  sure  I  felt  it 
strongly  ;  no  one  can  feel  the  do  morel" 

Waife's  pliant  face  relaxed  into  genial  bright- 
ness— the  equivoque  charmed  him.  However, 
not  affecting  to  comprehend  it,  he  thrust  back 
the  money  and  said,  "No,  Sir — not  a  shilling 
till  the  picture  is  completed.  Nay,  to  relieve 
your  mind,  I  will  own  that,  had  1  no  scruple 
more  deUcate,  I  would  rather  receive  nothing 
till  Mr.  Rugge  is  gone.  True,  he  has  no  right 
to  any  share  in  it.  But  you  see  before  you  a 
man  who,  when  it  comes  to  arguing,  could  nev- 
er take  a  wrangler's  degree — never  get  over  the 


Ass's  Bridge,  Sir.  Plucked  at  it  scores  of  times 
clean  as  a  feather.  But  do  not  go  yet.  You 
came  to  give  us  money ;  give  us  what,  were  I 
rich,  I  should  value  more  highly — a  little  of  your 
time.  You,  Sir,  are  an  artist ;  and  you,  young 
gentleman?"  addressing  Lionel. 

Lionel  (coloring).  "I — am  nothing  as  yet." 

Waife.  "  You  are  fond  of  the  drama,  I  pre- 
sume, both  of  you.  Apropos  of  John  Kemble, 
yon,  Sir,  said  that  you  have  never  heard  him. 
Allow  me,  so  far  as  this  cracked  voice  can  do 
it,  to  give  you  a  faint  idea  of  him." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Vance,  drawing 
nearer  to  the  table,  and  feeling  more  at  his  ease. 
"  But  since  I  see  you  smoke,  may  I  take  the  lib- 
erty to  light  my  cigar?" 

"  Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  Gentleman 
Waife,  with  the  good-humor  of  a  fatherly  host. 
And  all  the  while  Lionel  and  Sophy  were  bab- 
bling together,  she  still  upon  his  lap. 

Waife  began  his  imitation  of  John  Kemble. 
Despite  the  cracked  voice  it  was  admirable. 
One  imitation  drew  on  another ;  then  succeed- 
ed anecdotes  of  the  Stage,  of  the  Senate,  of  the 
Bar.  Waife  had  heard  great  orators,  whom  ev- 
ery one  still  admires  for  the  speeches  which  no- 
body, nowadays,  ever  reads  ;  he  gave  a  lively 
idea  of  each.  And  then  came  sayings  of  dry 
humor,  and  odd  scraps  of  worldly  observation ; 
and  time  flew  on  pleasantly  till  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  the  young  guests  tore  themselves 
away. 

••  Merle,  iferle !"  cried  the  Comedian,  when 
they  were  gone. 

Merle  appeared. 

"  We  don't  go  to-morrow.  When  Rngge 
sends  for  us  (as  he  will  do  at  daybreak),  say  so. 
Y'ou  shall  lodge  us  a  few  days  longer,  and  then 
— and  then — my  httle  Sophy,  kiss  mc,  ki?s  me ; 
You  are  saved  at  least  from  those  horrid  paint- 
ed creatures  I" 

"Ah,  ah,"  growled  Merle  from  below,  "he 
has  got  the  money  1  Glad  to  hear  it.  But," 
he  added,  as  he  glanced  at  sundrv-  weird  and 
astrological  s^-mbols  with  which  he  had  been 
diverting  himself,  "that's  not  it.  The  true  ho- 
rary question  is,  Wh-vt  avill  he  do  vmu.  it  ?" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Historian  shovrs  that,  notwithstanding  the  progress- 
ive Fpirit  of  the  times,  a  Briton  is  not  permitted,  with- 
out an  effort,  '"to  progress"  according  to  his  own  incli- 
nations, 

SopHT  could  not  sleep.  At  first  she  was  too 
happy.  Without  being  conscious  of  any  degra- 
dation in  her  lot  among  the  itinerant  anists  of 
Mr.  Rugge's  exhibition  (how  could  she,  when 
her  beloved  and  revered  protector  had  been  one 
of  those  artists  for  years  ?),  yet,  instinctively,  she 
shrunk  from  their  contact.  Doubtless,  while  ab- 
sorbed in  some  stirring  part,  she  forgot  compan- 
ions, audience,  all,  and  enjoyed  what  she  per- 
formed— necessarily  enjoyed,  for  her  acting  was 
really  excellent,  and  where  no  enjoyment  there 
no  excellence ;  but  when  the  histrionic  enthusi- 
asm was  not  positively  at  work,  she  crept  to  her 
grandfather  with  something  between  loathing 
and  terror  of  the  "painted  creatures"  and  her 
own  borrowed  tinsel. 


20 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


But  more  than  all,  she  felt  acutely  eveiy  in- 
dignity 01-  affront  offered  to  Gentleman  Waife. 
Heaven  knows  these  were  not  few ;  and  to  es- 
cape from  such  a  life — to  be  with  her  grand- 
father alone,  have  him  all  to  lierself  to  tend  and 
to  pet,  to  listen  to,  and  to  prattle  with,  seemed 
to  her  the  consummation  of  human  felicity.  Ah, 
but  should  she  be  all  alone?  Just  as  she  was 
lulling  herself  into  a  doze,  that  question  seized 
and  roused  her.  And  then  it  was  not  happiness 
that  ke]3t  her  waking — it  was  what  is  less  rare 
in  the  female  breast — curiosity.  Who  was  to 
be  the  mysterious  third,  to  whose  acquisition 
the  three  pounds  were  evidently  to  be  devoted? 
What  new  face  had  she  purchased  by  the  loan 
of  her  own  ?  Not  the  Pig-faced  Lad}-,  nor  the 
Spotted  Boy.  Could  it  be  the  Norfolk  Giant, 
or  the  Calf  with  Two  Heads  ?  Horrible  idea ! 
Monstrous  phantasmagoria  began  to  stalk  before 
her  eyes  ;  and,  to  charm  them  away,  with  great 
fervor  she  fell  to  saying  her  prayers — an  act  of 
devotion  Avhich  she  had  forgotten,  in  her  excite- 
ment, to  ]jerform  before  resting  her  head  on  her 
pillow — but,  could  we  peep  into  the  soft  spirit- 
world  around  us,  we  might  find  the  omission  not 
noted  down  in  very  dark  characters  by  the  re- 
cording angel. 

That  act  over,  her  thoughts  took  a  more  come- 
ly aspect  than  had  been  worn  by  the  preceding 
phantasies,  reflected  Lionel's  kind  looks,  and  re- 
peated his  gentle  words.  "  Heaven  bless  him !" 
she  said,  with  emphasis,  as  a  supplement  to  the 
habitual  prayers  ;  and  then  tears  gathered  to  her 
grateful  eyelids,  for  she  was  one  of  those  beings 
whose  tears  come  slow  from  sorrow,  quick  from 
affection.  And  so  the  gi-ay  dawn  found  her  still 
wakeful,  and  she  rose,  bathed  her  cheeks  in  the 
cold  fresh  water,  and  drew  them  forth  with  a 
glow  like  Hebe's.  Dressing  herself  with  the 
quiet  activity  which  characterized  ail  her  move- 
ments, she  then  opened  the  casement  and  in- 
haled the  air.  All  was  still  in  the  narrow  lane, 
the  shops  yet  unclosed.  But  on  the  still  trees 
behind  the  shops  the  birds  were  beginning  to 
stir  and  chirp.  Chanticleer,  from  some  neigh- 
boring yard,  rung  out  his  brisk  reveilke.  Pleas- 
ant English  summer  dawn  in  the  pleasant  En- 
glish country  village.  She  stretched  her  grace- 
ful neck  far  from  the  casement,  trying  to  catch 
.1  glimpse  of  the  blue  river.  She  had  seen  its 
majestic  flow  on  the  day  they  had  an-ived  at 
the  fair,  and  longed  to  gain  its  banks ;  then  her 
servitude  to  the  stage  forbade  her.  Now  she 
was  to  be  free !  Oh,  joy !  Now  she  might  have 
her  careless  hours  of  holiday;  and,  forgetful  of 
Waife's  warning  that  their  vocation  must  be 
plied  in  towns,  she  let  her  fancy  run  riot  amidst 
visions  of  green  fields  and  laughing  waters,  and 
in  fond  delusion  gathered  the  daisies  and  chased 
the  butterflies.  Changeling  transferred  into  that 
lowest  world  of  Art  from  the  cradle  of  simple 
Nature,  her  human  child's  heart  yearned  for  the 
human  childlike  delights.  All  children  love  the 
country,  the  flowers,  the  sward,  the  bii"ds,  the 
butterflies,  or,  if  some  do  not,  despair,  oh.  Phi- 
lanthropy, of  their  after-lives ! 

She  closed  the  window,  smiling  to  herself, 
stole  through  the  adjoining  door-way,  and  saw 
that  her  grandfather  was  still  asleep.  Then  she 
busied  herself  in  ])utting  the  little  sitting-room 
to  rights,  reset  the  table  for  the  morning  meal, 
watered  the  stocks,  and,  finally,  took  up  the 


crystal  and  looked  into  it  ■ndth  awe,  wondering 

\  why  the  Cobbler  could  see  so  much,  and  she 

:  only  the  distorted  reflection  of  her  own  face. 

'  So  interested,  however,  for  once,  did  she  become 

in  the  inspection  of  this  mystic  globe  that  she 

did  not  notice  the  dawn  pass  into  broad  daylight, 

nor  hear  a  voice  at  the  door  below — nor,  in  short, 

take   into  cognition  the    external  world,   till  a 

heavy  tread  shook  the  floor,  and  then,  starting, 

she  beheld  the  Remorseless  Baron,  with  a  face 

black  enough  to  have  darkened  the  crystal  of  Dr. 

Dee  himself. 

"  Ho,  ho !"  said  Mr.  Eugge,  in  hissing  accents, 
which  had  often  thrilled  the  threepenny  gallery 
with  anticipative  horror.  "Rebellious,  eh?-^ 
won't  come  ?  Where's  your  grandfather,  bag- 
gage ?" 

Sophy  let  fall  the  crystal — a  mercy  it  was  not 
broken — and  gazed  vacantly  on  the  Baron. 

"Your  vile  scamp  of  a  grandfather?'' 

Sophy  (with  spirit).  "  He  is  not  vile.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  speaking  so, 
Mr.  Rugge !" 

Here,  simultaneously,  Mr.  Waife  hastily,  en- 
dued in  his  gray  dressing-gown,  presented  him- 
self at  the  aperture  of  the  bedroom  door,  and  the 
Cobbler  on  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room. 
The  Comedian  stood  mute,  trusting,  perha]js,  to 
the  imposing  effect  of  his  attitude.  The  Cobbler, 
yielding  to  the  impulse  of  untheatric  man,  put 
his  head  doggedly  on  one  side,  and,  with  both 
hands  on  his  hips,  said, 

"  Civil  words  to  my  lodgers,  master,  or  out 
yon  go!" 

The  Remorseless  Baron  glared  vindictively 
first  at  one,  and  then  at  the  other;  at  length  he 
strode  up  to  Waife,  and  said,  with  a  withering 
grin,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you ;  shall  I 
say  it  before  your  landlord?" 

The  comedian  waved  his  hand  to  the  Cobbler. 

"Leave  us,  my  friend ;  I  shall  not  require  you. 
Step  this  way,  ]\Ir.  Rugge."  Rugge  entered  the 
bedroom,  and  Waife  closed  the  door  behind 
them. 

"Anan,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  scratching  his 
head.  "I  don't  quite  take  your  gi-andfather's 
giving  in.  British  ground  here !  But  your  as- 
cendant can  not  surely  be  in  such  malignant 
conjunction  with  that  obstreperous  tyrant  as  to 
bind  you  to  him  hand  and  foot.  Let's  see  what 
the  Crystal  thinks  of  it.  Take  it  up  gently,  and 
come  down  stairs  with  me." 

"  Please,  no  ;  I'll  stay  near  grandfather,"  said 
Sophy,  resolutely.  "He  shan't  be  left  helpless 
with  that  rude  man." 

The  Cobbler  could  not  help  smiling.  "Lord 
love  you,"  said  he;  "you  have  a  spirit  of  your 
own,  and,  if  you  were  my  ^yife,  I  should  bo 
afraid  of  you.  But  I  won't  stand  here  eaves- 
dropping ;  mayhap  your  grandfather  has  secrets 
I'm  not  to  hear;  call  me  if  I'm  wanted."  He 
descended.  Sophy,  with  less  noble  disdain  of 
eaves-dropping,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
holding  her  breath  to  listen.  She  heard  no 
sound — she  had  half  a  mind  to  put  her  ear  to 
the  key-hole,  but  that  seemed,  even  to  her,  a 
mean  thing,  if  not  absolutely  required  by  the 
necessity  of  the  case.  So  there  she  still  stood, 
her  head  bent  down,  her  finger  raised:  oh  that 
Vance  could  have  so  jjuinted  her! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


21 


CHATTER  X. 

Showing  the  causes  why  Men  and  Nation?,  when  one  Man 
or  Nation  wishes  to  get  for  its  own  arbitraiy  purposes 
what  the  other  Man  or  Nation  does  not  desire  to  part 
•with,  are  apt  to  ignore  the  mild  precepts  of  Christiani- 
ty, shock  the  sentiments,  and  upset  the  theories  of  Peace 
Societies. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Ragge,  in  a 
whisper,  when  Waife  had  drawn  him  to  the  far- 
thest end  of  the  inner  room,  with  the  bed-cur- 
tains between  their  position  and  the  door  dead- 
ening the  sound  of  their  voices — "  am  I  to  un- 
derstand that,  after  mv  taking  you  and  that 
child  to  my  theatre  out  of  charity,  and  at  your 
own  request,  you  are  going  to  quit  me  without 
warning — French  leave — is  that  British  con- 
duct ?" 

"  Mr.  Rugge,"  replied  Waife,  deprecatingly, 
"  I  have  no"  engagement  with  you  beyond  an 
experimental  trial.  We  were  free  on  both  sides 
for  three  months  —  you  to  dismiss  us  any  day, 
we  to  leave  you.  The  experiment  does  not 
please  us ;  we  thank  you,  and  depart." 

RfGGE.  "  That  is  not  the  truth.  I  said  /was 
free  to  dismiss  you  both  if  the  child  did  not  suit. 
You.  poor  helpless  creature,  could  be  of  no  use. 
But  I  never  heard  you  say  you  were  to  be  free, 
too.  Stand  to  reason  not !  Put  my  engage- 
ments at  a  Waife's  mercy  I — I,  Lorenzo  Rugge  ! 
— stuff  1  But  I'm  a  just  man,  and  a  liberal  man, 
and  if  you  think  you  ought  to  have  a  higher  sal- 
ary— if  this  ungrateful  proceeding  is  only,  as  I 
take  it,  a  strike  for  wages — I  will  meet  you.  Ju- 
lia Araminta  does  play  better  than  I  could  have 
supixjsed ;  and  I'll  conclude  an  engagement  on 
good  terms,  as  we  were  to  have  done  if  the  ex- 
periment answered,  for  three  years." 

Waife  shook  his  head.  "  You  are  very  good, 
Mr.  Rugge,  but  it  is  not  a  strike.  My  little  girl 
does  not  like  the  life  at  any  price  :  and  since  she 
supports  me,  I  am  bound  to  please  her.  Besides," 
said  the  actor,  with  a  stiffer  manner,  '•  you  have 
broken  faith  with  me.  It  was  fully  understood 
that  I  was  to  appear  no  more  on  your  stage  ;  all 
mv  task  was  to  advise  with  you  in  the  perform- 
aiices,  remodel  the  plays,  help  in  the  stage-man- 
agement ;  and  you  took  advantage  of  my  penu- 
rv,  and,  when  1  asked  for  a  small  advance,  in- 
sisted on  forcing  these  relics  of  what  I  was  upon 
the  public  pity.  Enough — we  part.  I  bear  no 
malice." 

KcGGE.  "Oh,  don't  you?  Xo  more  do  I. 
But  I  am  a  Briton,  and  I  have  the  spirit  of  one. 
You  had  better  not  make  an  enemy  of  me." 

W.\iFE.  "  I  am  above  the  necessity  of  making 
enemies.  I  have  an  enemv  ready  made  in  my- 
self." 

Rugge  placed  a  strong  bony  hand  upon  the 
cripple's  arm.  "  I  dare  say  you  have  I  A  bad 
conscience,  Sir.  How  would  yon  like  your  past 
life  looked  into  and  blabbed  out  ?" 

Gentleman  Waife  (mournfully).  '•  The  last 

four  years  of  it  have  been  spent  in  your  ser\ice, 

■  Mr.  Rugge.     If  their  record  had  been  blabbed 

out  for  my  benefit,  there  would  not  have  been  a 

dry  eye  in  the  house." 

Rugge.  "  I  disdain  your  sneer.  When  a  scor- 
pion nursed  at  my  bosom  sneers  at  me,  I  leave 
it  to  its  own  reflections.  But  I  don't  speak  of 
the  years  in  which  that  scorpion  has  been  en- 
joying a  salary  and  smoking  canaster  at  my  ex- 
pense.    I  refer  to  an  earlier  dodge  in  its  check- 


ered existence.  Ha,  Sir,  you  wince!  I  sus- 
pect I  can  find  out  something  about  you  which 
would — " 

Waife  (fiercely).  "Would  what?" 
Rcgge.  -'Oh,  lower  your  tone,  Sir — no  bully- 
ing me.  I  suspect !  I  have  good  reason  for  sus- 
picion; and  if  you  sneak  off  in  this  way,  and 
cheat  me  out  of  my  property  in  Julia  Araminta, 
I  will  leave  no  stone  imturned  to  prove  what  I 
suspect.  Look  to  it.  slight  man  !  Come,  I  don't 
wish  to  quarrel;  make  it  up,  and"  (drawing  out 
his  pocket-book)  "  if  you  want  cash  down,  and 
will  have  an  engagement  in  black  and  white  for 
three  years  for  Julia  Araminta,  you  may  squeeze 
a  good  sum  out  of  me,  and  go  yourself  where  you 
please  ;  you'll  never  be  troubled  by  mc.  What 
I  want  is  the  girl." 

All  the  actor  laid  aside,  Waife  growled  out, 
"And  hang  me.  Sir,  if  you  shall  have  the  girl !" 
At  this  moment  Sophy  opened  the  door  wide, 
and  entered  boldly.  She  had  heard  her  grand- 
father's voice  raised,  though  its  hoarse  tones  did 
not  allow  her  to  distinguish  his  words.  She  was 
alarmed  for  him.  She  came  in,  his  guardian 
fairv,  to  protect  him  from  the  oppressor  of  six 
feet  high.  Rugge 's  arm  was  raised,  not  indeed 
to  strike,  but  rather  to  declaim.  Sophy  slid  be- 
tween him  and  her  grandfather,  and  clinging 
round  the  latter,  flung  out  her  own  arm,  the 
forefinger  raised  menacingly  toward  the  Re- 
morseless Baron.  How  you  would  have  clapped 
if  you  had  seen  her  so  at  Covent  Garden.  But 
I'll  swear  the  child  did  not  know  she  was  act- 
ing. Rugge  did,  and  was  struck  with  admira- 
tion and  regretful  rage  at  the  idea  of  losing  her. 
"Bravo I"  said  he,  involuntarily.  "Come — 
come,  Waife,  look  at  her — she  was  bom  for  the 
stage.  My  heart  swells  with  pride.  She  is  my 
property,  morally  speaking ;  make  her  so  legal- 
ly— and  hark,  in  your  ear — fifty  pounds.  Take 
me  in  the  humor.  Golgonda  opens  —  fifty 
pounds  I" 

"Xo,"  said  the  vagrant. 
"Well,"  said  Rugge,  sullenly,  "let  her  speak 
for  herself." 

"  Speak,  child.  Yon  don't  wish  to  return  to 
;Mr.  Rugge — and  without  me,  too — do  you,  So- 
phv?" 

"  Without  you,  Grandy !    Td  rather  die  first." 
"You  hear  her;    allis  settled  between  us. 
Yon  have  had  our  services  up  to  last  night ;  you 
have  paid  us  up  to  last  night ;    and  so  good- 
morning  to  you,  Mr.  Rugge." 

"  Mv  dear  child,"  said  the  manager,  softening 
his  voice  as  much  as  he  could,  "do  consider. 
I  You  shall  be  so  made  of,  without  that  stupid  old 
I  man.     You  think  me  cross,  but  'tis  he  who  irri- 
',  tates  and  puts  me  out  of  temper.     I'm  uncom- 
mon fond  of  children.     I  had  a  babe  of  my  own 
once — upon  my  honor  I  had — and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  convulsions,  caused  by  teething,  I  should 
be  a  father  still.    Supply  to  nie  the  place  of  that 
beloved  babe.    You  shall  have  such  fine  dresses  ; 
all  new — choose  'em  yourself — minced  veal  and 
raspberr)-  tarts  for  dinner  every  Sunday.     In 
three  years,  under  my  care,  you  will  become  a 
great  actress,  and  make  your  fortune,  and  marry 
a  lord — lords  go  out  of  their  wits  for  great  act- 
resses— whereas,  with  him,  what  will  you  do  ? 
Drudge,  and  rot,  and  starve;  and  he  can't  live 
long,  and  then  where  will  you  be  ?    'Tis  a  shame 
.  to  hold  her  so,  you  idle  old  vagabond." 


22 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


"  I  don't  hold  her,"  said  Waife,  trying  to  push 
her  away.  "There's  something  in  what  the  man 
says.     Choose  for  yourself,  Sophy." 

Sophy  (suppressing  a  sob).  "How  can  you 
have  the  heart  to  talk  so,  Grandy?  I  tell  you, 
Mr.  Eugge,  you  are  a  bad  man,  and  I  hate  you, 
and  all  about  you — and  I'll  stay  with  grand- 
father—  and  I  don't  care  if  I  do  stane  —  he 
shan't  1" 

Mr.  RuGGE  (clapping  both  hands  on  the  crown 
of  his  hat,  and  striding  to  the  door).  '-William 
Waife,  beware  I  'Tis  done  !  I'm  your  enemy  ! 
As  for  you,  too  dear  but  abandoned  infant,  stay 
with  him.  You'll  find  out  very  soon  who  and 
what  he  is — yoiu'  pride  will  have  a  fall,  when — " 

Waife  sprang  forward,  despite  his  lameness — 
both  his  fists  clenched,  his  one  eye  ablaze ;  his 
broad,  burly  torso  confronted  and  daunted  the 
stormy  manager.  Taller  and  younger  though 
Rugge  was,  he  cowered  before  the  cripple  he  had 
so  long  taunted  and  humbled.  The  words  stood 
arrested  on  his  tongue.  "  Leave  the  room  in- 
stantly I"  thundered  the  actor,  in  a  voice  no  lon- 
ger broken.  ' '  Blacken  my  name  before  that  child 
by  one  word,  and  I  will  dash  the  next  down  your 
throat  I" 

Rugge  rushed  to  the  door,  and  keeping  it  ajar 
between  Waife  and  himself,  he  then  thrust  in 
his  head,  hissing  forth,  "  Fly,  caitiff",  fly !  My 
revenge  shall  track  your  secret,  and  place  you  in 
my  power.  Juliet  Araminta  shall  yet  be  mine '." 
With  these  awful  words  the  Eemoi-seless  Baron 
cleared  the  stairs  in  two  bounds,  and  was  out  of 
the  house. 

Waife  smiled,  contemptuously.  But  as  the 
street-door  clanged  on  the  form  of  the  angry 
manager  the  color  faded  from  the  old  man's 
face.  Exhausted  by  the  excitement  he  had  gone 
through,  he  sank  on  a  chair,  and  with  one  quick 
gasp  as  for  breath,  fainted  away. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


Progress  of  the  Fine  Arts. — Biographical  Anecdotes. — 
Fluctuations  in  the  Value  of  Money.  —  Speculative 
Tendencies  of  the  Time. 

Whatever  the  shock  which  the  brutality  of 
the  Remorseless  Baron  inflicted  on  the  nenotis 
system  of  the  persecuted  but  triumphant  Bandit, 
it  had  certainly  subsided  by  the  time  Vance 
and  Lionel  entered  Waife's  apartment,  for  they 
found  grandfather  and  grandchild  seated  near 
the  open  window,  at  the  corner  of  the  table  (on 
which  they  had  made  room  for  their  operations 
by  the  removal  of  the  carded  cocoanut,  the  cr}"s- 
tal  egg,  and  the  two  flower-pots),  eagerly  en- 
gaged, with  many  a  silvery  laugh  from  the  lips 
of  Sophy,  in  the  game  of  dominoes. 

Mr.  Waife  had  been  devoting  himself,  for  the 
last  hour  and  more,  to  the  instruction  of  Sophy 
in  the  mysteries  of  that  intellectual  amusement, 
and  such  pains  did  he  take,  and  so  impressive 
were  his  exhortations,  that  his  happy  pupil  could 
not  help  thinking  to  herself  that  this  was  the 
new  art  upon  which  Waife  depended  for  their 
future  livelihood.  She  sprang  up,  however,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  visitors,  her  face  beaming 
with  grateful  smiles ;  and,  running  to  Lionel, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  while  she  courtesied 
with  more  respect  to  Vance,  she  exclaimed, 


"We  are  free!  thanks  to  you — thanks  to  you 
both  I     He  is  gone  !     Mr.  Rugge  is  gone  I" 

"  So  I  saw  on  passing  the  green  ;  stage  and 
all,"  said  Vance,  while  Lionel  kissed  the  child 
and  pressed  her  to  his  side.  It  is  astonishing 
how  paternal  he  felt — how  much  she  had  crept 
into  his  heart. 

'■Pray,  Sir,"  asked  Sophy,  timidly,  glancing 
to  Vance,  "has  the  Norfolk  Giant  gone  too?" 

Vance.  "  I  fancy  so — all  the  shows  were  ei- 
ther gone  or  goins." 

SopHT.   "The  Calf  with  Two  Heads?" 

Vance.   "  Do  you  regret  it  ?" 

Sophy.   "  Oh,  dear,  no." 

Waife,  who,  after  a  profound  bow,  and  a 
cheery  ''Good-day,  gentlemen,"  had  hitherto 
I'cmained  silent,  putting  away  the  dominoes, 
now  said — "I  suppose,  Sir,  you  would  like  at 
once  to  begin  your  sketch  ?" 

Vanxe.  "Yes;  I  have  brought  all  my  tools — 
see,  even  the  canvas.  I  wish  it  were  larger, 
but  it  is  all  I  have  with  me  of  that  material — 
'tis  already  stretched — just  let  me  arrange  the 
light." 

Waife.  "If  you  don't  want  ine,  gentlemen, 
I  will  take  the  air  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  In 
fact,  I  may^  now  feel  free  to  look  after  my  invest- 
ment." 

Sophy  (whispering  Lionel).  "You  are  sure 
the  Calf  has  gone  as  well  as  the  Norfolk  Giant  ?" 

Lionel  wonderingly  replied  that  he  thought 
so ;  and  Waife  disappeared  into  his  room,  whence 
he  soon  emerged,  having  doft'ed  his  dressing- 
gown  for  a  black  coat,  by  no  means  threadbare, 
and  well  brushed.  Hat,  stick,  and  gloves  in 
hand,  he  really  seemed  respectable — more  than 
respectable — Gentleman  Waife  eveiy  inch  of 
him;  and  saying,  "Look  your  best,  Sophy,  and 
sit  still,  if  you  can,"  nodded  pleasantly  to  the 
three,  and  hobbled  down  the  stairs.  Sophy — 
whom  Vance  had  just  settled  into  a  chair,  with 
her  head  bent  partially  down  (three  quarters), 
as  the  artist  had  released 

"The  loose  train  of  her  amber-flowing  hair," 
and  was  contemplating  aspect  and  position  with 
a  painter's  meditative  eye — started  up,  to  his 
great  discomposure,  and  rushed  to  the  window. 
She  returned  to  her  seat  with  her  mind  much 
relieved.  Waife  was  walking  in  an  opposite  di- 
rection to  that  which  led  toward  the  whilome 
quarters  of  the  Norfolk  Giant  and  the  Two- 
headed  Calf 

"Come,  come,"  said  Vance,  impatiently, 
"  you  have  broken  an  idea  in  half.  I  beg  you 
will  not  stir  till  I  have  jjlaced  you — and  then, 
if  all  else  of  you  be  still,  you  may  exercise  yoar 
tongue.     I  give  you  leave  to  talk." 

Sophy  (penitentially).  "I  am  so  sorry — I  beg 
pardon.     Will  that  do.  Sir  ?" 

Vance.  "Head  a  little  more  to  the  right — 
so.  Titania  watching  Bottom  :.sleep.  Will  you 
lie  on  the  floor,  Lionel,  and  do  Bottom  ?" 

Lionel  (indignantly).  '-Bottom  I  Have  I  an 
ass's  head  ?" 

Vance.  "Immaterial!  I  can  easily  imagine 
that  you  have  one.  I  want  merely  an  outline 
of  figure — something  sprawling  and  ungainly." 

Lionel  (sulkily).  '-^Much  obliged  to  you — 
imagine  that  too." 

Vance.  "  Don't  be  so  disobliging.  It  is  nec- 
essary that  she  should  look  fondly  at  something 
— expression  in  the  eye." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  FT  ? 


23 


Lionel  at  once  reclined  himself  incumbent  in 
a  position  as  little  sprawling  and  ungainly  as  he 
could  well  contrive. 

Vance.  "  Fancy,  Miss  Sophy,  that  this  young 
gentleman  is  ven.'  dear  to  you.  Have  you  got 
a  brother  ?" 

Sopnv.   "  Ah  no,  Sir," 

Vaxce.  "  Hum.  But  you  have,  or  have  had, 
a  doll?" 

Sophy.  "Oh,  yes;  grandfather  gave  me  one." 

Vaxce.  "And  you  were  fond  of  that  doll?" 

Sophy.  '•  Very." 

Vance.  "Fancy  that  young  gentleman  is 
your  doll  grown  big — that  it  is  asleei».  and  you 
are  watching  that  no  one  hurts  it — >lr.  Kugge, 
for  instance.  Throw  your  whole  soul  into  that 
thought — love  for  doll,  apprehension  of  Rugge. 
Lionel,  keep  still  and  shut  your  eyes — do." 

Lionel  (grumbling).  "I  did  not  come  here 
to  be  made  a  doll  of." 

Vaxce.  "Coax  him  to  be  quiet,  iliss  Sophy, 
and  sleep  peaceably,  or  I  shall  do  him  a  mis- 
chief.    I  can  be  a  Rugge  too,  if  I  am  put  out." 

Sophy  (in  the  softest  tones).  "Do  try  and 
sleep.  Sir — shall  I  get  you  a  pillow?" 

Lionel.  "  No.  thank  you — Fm  very  comfort- 
able now"  (settling  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and 
after  one  upward  glance  toward  Sophy,  the  lids 
closed  reluctantly  over  his  softened  eyes).  A 
ray  of  sunshine  came  aslant  through  the  half- 
shut  ^\•indow,  and  played  along  the  boy's  clus- 
tering hair  and  smooth  pale  cheeL  Sophy's 
gaze  rested  on  him  most  benignly. 

"Just  so,"  said  Vance;  "and  now  be  silent 
till  I  have  got  the  attitude  and  fixed  the  look." 

The  artist  sketched  away  rapidly  with  a  bold 
practiced  hand,  and  all  was  silent  for  about 
half  an  hour,  when  he  said,  "You  m.iy  get  up, 
Lionel ;  I  have  done  with  you  for  the  present." 

Sophy.  "And  me,  too — may  I  see?" 

Vaxce.  "No;  but  you  may  talk  now.  So 
Tou  had  a  doll  ?     What  has  become  of  it?" 

Sophy.  "I  left  it  behind.  Sir.  Grandfather 
thought  it  would  distract  me  from  attending  to 
his  lessons,  and  learning  my  part." 

Vaxce.  "You  love  your  grandfather  more 
than  the  doll  ?" 

Sophy.  "  Oh  I  a  thousand  million  million 
times  more." 

Vaxce.  "  He  brought  you  up,  I  suppose. 
Have  you  no  father — no  mother  ?" 

Sophy.  "I  have  only  grandfather." 

Lionel.   "  Have  you  always  lived  with  him  ?" 

Sophy.  "Dear  me,  no;  I  was  with  Mrs. 
Crane  till  grandfather  came  from  abroad,  and 
took  me  away,  and  put  me  with  some  ver\-  kind 
people ;  and  then,  when  grandfather  had  that 
bad  accident,  I  came  to  stay  with  him,  and  we 
have  been  together  ever  since." 

Lionel.  "Was  Mrs.  Crane  no  relation  of 
yours  ?" 

SoFFTi".  "No,  I  suppose  not,  for  she  was  not 
kind — I  was  so  miserable ;  but  don't  talk  of  it — 
I  forget  that  now.  I  only  wish  to  remember 
from  the  time  grandfather  took  me  in  his  lap, 
and  told  me  to  l>e  a  good  child,  and  love  him; 
and  I  have  been  happy  ever  since." 

"  You  are  a  dear  good  child,"  said  Lionel, 
emphatically,  "and  I  wish  I  had  you  for  my 
sister," 

Vaxce.  "TNTien  your  grandfather  has  re- 
ceived from  me  that  exorbitant — not   that  I 


grudge  it — sum,  I  should  like  to  ask,  What  will 
he  do  with  it?  As  he  said  it  was  a  secret,  I 
must  not  pump  you." 

Sophy.  "  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  I  should 
hke  to  know  too,  bir;  but  whatever  it  is,  I 
don't  care,  so  long  as  I  and  grandfather  are  to- 
gether." 

Here  Waife  re-entered.  "Well,  how  goes 
on  the  picture  ?" 

Vaxce.  "Tolerably  for  the  first  sitting;  I 
require  two  more." 

Waife.  "Certainly;  only — only"  (he  drew 
aside  Vance,  and  whispered;,  -only,  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  I  fear  I  sha//  want  the  money. 
It  is  an  occasion  that  never  will  occur  again — I 
would  seize  it." 

Vaxce.  "Take  the  money,  now." 

Waife.  "Well,  thank  you.  Sir;  you  are  sure 
now  that  we  shall  not  run  away — and  I  accept 
your  kindness ;  it  will  make  all  safe." 

Vance,  with  surprising  alacrity,  slipped  the 
sovereigns  into  the  old  man's  hand ;  for,  truth 
to  say,  though  thrifty,  the  Artist  was  really 
generous.  His  organ  of  caution  was  large,  but 
that  of  acquisitiveness  moderate.  3Ioreover,  in 
those  moments  when  his  soul  expanded  with  his 
art,  he  was  insensibly  less  alive  to  the  value  of 
money.  And  strange  it  is  that,  though  states 
strive  to  fix  for  that  commodity  the  most  abid- 
ing standards,  yet  the  value  of  money,  to  the 
indi\-idual  who  regards  it,  shifts  and  fluctuates, 
goes  up  and  down  half  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
For  my  part,  I  honestly  declare  that  there  are 
hours  in  the  twenty-four — such,  for  instance, 
as  that  just  before  breakfast,  or  that  succeeding 
a  page  of  this  History  in  which  I  have  been  put 
out  of  temper  with  my  performance  and  my- 
self, when  any  one  in  want  of  five  shillings  at 
my  disposal  would  find  my  value  of  that  sum 
put  ii  quite  out  of  his  reach ;  while  at  other 
times — just  after  dinner,  for  instance,  or  whcM 
I  have  efiected  what  seems  to  me  a  happy  stroke, 
or  a  good  bit  of  color,  in  this  historical  composi- 
tion— the  value  of  those  five  shillings  is  so  much 
depreciated  that  I  might  be — I  think  so.  at  least 
— I  might  be  almost  tempted  to  give  them  away 
for  nothing.  Lender  some  such  mysterious  in- 
fluences in  the  money  market,  Vance,  there- 
fore, felt  not  the  loss  of  his  three  sovereigns ; 
and,  returning  to  his  easel,  drove  away  Lionel 
and  Sophy,  who  had  taken  that  opportunity  to 
gaze  on  the  canvas. 

"Don't  do  her  justice  at  all,"  quoth  Lionel; 
"  all  the  features  exaggerated." 

"And  yon  pretend  to  paint  1"  returned  Vance, 
in  great  scorn,  and  throwing  a  cloth  over  his 
canvas.  '•  To-morrow.  Mr.  Waife,  the  same 
hour.  Now,  Lionel,  get  your  hat,  and  come 
away." 

Vance  carried  off  the  canvas,  and  Lionel  fol- 
lowed slowly.  Sophy  gazed  at  their  departing 
forms  from  the  open  window ;  Waife  stumped 
about  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands — '•  He'll  do, 
he'll  do ;  I  always  thought  so."  Sophy  turned 
"Who'll  do?  —  the  young  gentleman.  Do 
what  ?" 

Waife.  "  The  young  gentleman — as  if  I  was 
thinking  of  him.  Our  new  companion — I  hare 
been  with  him  this  last  hour.  Wonderful  natu- 
ral gifts." 

Sophy  (niefully).  "It  is  alive,  then?" 

Waife.  "Alive  '.  yes,  I  should  think  so. 


24 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


SoPHT   (half-crving).    '-rin    very   soiTy;    I 
know  I  shall  hate  it." 

"Tut,  darling — get  me  my  pipe — I'm  hap- 

py-" 

Sophy  (cutting  short  her  fit  of  ill-humor). 
"Are  you  ? — then  I  am,  and  I  \yill  not  hate  it." 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

In  which  it  is  shown  that  a  man  does  this  or  declines  to 
do  that  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself — a  reserve 
which  is  extremely  conducive  to  the  social  interests  of 
a  community;  since  the  conjecture  into  the  origin  and 
nature  of  those  reasons  stimulates  tlie  inquiiing  facul- 
ties, and  furnishes  the  staple  of  modern  conversation. 
And  as  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that,  if  their  neighbors 
left  them  nothing  to  guess  at,  three-fourths  of  civil- 
ized humankind,  male  or  female,  would  have  nothing 
to  talk  about ;  so  we  can  not  too  gratefully  encourage 
that  needful  curiosity,  termed,  by  the  inconsiderate, 
tittle-tattle  or  scandal,  which  saves  the  vast  majority 
of  our  species  from  being  reduced  to  the  degraded  con- 
dition of  dumb  animals. 

The  nest  day  the  sitting  was  renewed ;  but 
Waife  did  not  go  out,  and  the  conversation  was 
a  little  more  restrained;  or  rather,  Waife  had 
the  larger  share  in  it.  The  comedian,  when  he 
pleased,  could  certainly  be  veiy  entertaining. 
It  was  not  so  much  in  what  he  said,  as  his  man- 
ner of  saying  it.  He  was  a  strange  combination 
of  sudden  extremes,  at  one  while  on  a  tone  of 
easy  but  not  undignified  familiarity  with  his  vis- 
itors, as  if  their  eqiyil  in  position,  their  superior 
in  years ;  then  abruptly,  humble,  deprecating, 
almost  obsequious,  almost  servile ;  and  then, 
again,  jerked,  as  it  were,  into  pride  and  stiff- 
ness, falling  back,  as  if  the  effort  were  impossi- 
ble, into  meek  dejection.  Still,  the  prevalent 
character  of  the  man's  mood  and  talk  was  so- 
cial, quaint,  cheerful.  Evidently  he  was,  by 
original  temperament,  a  droll  and  joyous  hu- 
morist, with  high  animal  spirits  ;  and,  withal, 
an  infantine  simplicity  at  times,  like  the  clever 
man  who  never  learns  the  world,  and  is  always 
taken  in. 

A  circumstance,  trifling  in  itself,  but  suggest- 
ive of  speculation  either  as  to  the  character  or 
antecedent  circumstances  of  Gentleman  Waife. 
did  not  escape  Vance's  observation.  Since  his 
rupture  with  Mr.  Rugge,  there  was  a  considera- 
ble amelioration  in  that  affection  of  the  trachea 
which,  while  his  engagement  Mith  Rugge  last- 
ed, had  rendered  the  comedian's  dramatic  tal- 
ents unavailable  on  the  stage.  He  now  express- 
ed himself  without  the  pathetic  hoarseness  or 
cavernous  wheeze  which  had  previously  thrown 
a  wet  blanket  over  his  efforts  at  discourse.  But 
Vance  put  no  very  stem  construction  on  the  dis- 
simulation which  this  change  seemed  to  denote. 
Since  Waife  was  still  one-eyed  and  a  cripple, 
he  might  very  excusably  shrink  from  reappear- 
ance on  the  stage,  and  affect  a  third  infirmity  to 
save  his  pride  from  the  exhibition  of  the  two  in- 
firmities that  were  genuine. 

That  which  most  puzzled  Vance  was  that 
which  had  most  puzzled  the  Cobbler — What 
could  the  man  once  have  been  ? — how  fallen  so 
low  ? — for  fall  it  was !  that  was  clear.  The 
painter,  though  not  himself  of  patrician  extrac- 
tion, had  been  much  in  the  best  society.  He 
had  been  a  petted  favorite  in  great  houses.  He 
had  traveled.  He  had  seen  the  world.  He  had 
the  habits  and  the  instincts  of  good  society. 


Now,  in  what  the  French  term  the  beau  monde, 
there  are  little  traits  that  reveal  those  who  have 
entered  it — certain  tricks  of  phrase,  certain 
modes  of  expression — even  the  pronunciation 
of  familiar  words,  even  the  modulation  of  an  ac- 
cent. A  man  of  the  most  refined  bearing  may 
not  have  these  peculiarities ;  a  man,  otherwise 
coarse  and  brusque  in  his  manner,  may.  The 
slang  of  the  beau  monde  is  quite  apart  from  the 
code  of  high-breeding.  Now  and  then,  some- 
thing in  Waife's  talk  seemed  to  show  that  he 
had  lighted  on  that  beau-world ;  now  and  then, 
that  something  wholly  vanished.  So  that  Vance 
might  have  said,  "He  has  been  admitted  there, 
not  inhabited  it." 

Yet  Vance  could  not  feel  sure,  after  all ;  co- 
medians are  such  takes-in.  But  was  the  man, 
by  the  profession  of  his  earlier  life,  a  comedian? 
Vance  asked  the  question  adroitly. 

"You  must  have  taken  to  the  stage  young?" 
said  he. 

"  The  stage !"  said  Waife  ;  "  if  you  mean  the 
public  stage — no.  I  have  acted  pretty  often  in 
youth,  even  in  childhood,  to  amuse  others,  never 
professionally  to  support  myself,  till  3Ir.  Rtigge 
civilly  engaged  me  four  years  ago." 

"Is  it  possible — with  your  excellent  educa- 
tion !  But  pardon  me ;  I  have  hinted  my  sur- 
prise at  your  late  vocation  before,  and  it  dis- 
pleased you." 

"  Displeased  me !"  said  Waife,  with  an  abject, 
depressed  manner ;  "  I  hope  I  said  nothing  that 
would  have  misbecome  a  poor  broken  vagabond 
like  me.  I  am  no  jjrince  in  disguise — a  good- 
for-nothing  varlet  who  should  be  too  grateful  to 
have  something  to  keep  himself  from  a  dung- 
hill." 

LioxEL.  "  Don't  talk  so.  And  but  for  your 
accident  you  might  now  be  the  great  attraction 
on  the  metropolitan  stage.  Who  does  not  re- 
spect a  really  fine  actor  ?" 

Waipe  (gloomily).  "  The  Metropolitan  Stage ! 
I  was  talked  into  it ;  I  am  glad  even  of  the  ac- 
cident that  saved  me — say  no  more  of  that,  no 
more  of  that.  But  I  have  spoiled  your  sitting : 
Sophy,  you  see,  has  left  her  chair." 

" I  have  done  for  to-day,"  said  Vance;  "to- 
morrow, and  my  task  is  ended." 

Lionel  came  up  to  Vance  and  whispered  to 
him ;  the  painter,  after  a  pause,  nodded  silently, 
and  then  said  to  Waife — 

"  We  are  going  to  enjoy  the  fine  weather  on 
the  Thames  (after  I  have  put  away  these  things), 
and  shall  return  to  our  inn — not  far  hence — to 
sup,  at  eight  o'clock.  Supper  is  our  principal 
meal — we  rarely  spoil  our  days  by  the  ceremo- 
nial of  a  formal  dinner.  Will  you  do  us  the  fa- 
vor to  sup  with  us  ?  Our  host  has  a  wonderful 
whisky,  which,  when  raw,  is  Glenlivat,  but,  re- 
fined into  toddy,  is  nectar.  Bring  your  pipe, 
and  let  us  hear  John  Kemble  again." 

Waife's  face  lighted  up.  "  You  are  most 
kind  ;  nothing  I  should  like  so  much.  But — " 
and  the  light  fled,  the  face  darkened — "  but  no ; 
I  can  not — you  don't  know — that  is — I — I  have 
made  a  vow  to  myself  to  decline  all  such  tempt- 
ations.    I  humbly  beg  you'll  excuse  me." 

Vance.  "Temptations!  of  what  kind — the 
whisky-toddy  ?" 

Waife  (puffing  away  a  sigh).  "  Ah,  yes ; 
whisky-toddy  if  you  please.  Perhaps  I  once 
loved  a  glass  too  well,  and  could  not  resist  a 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


flass  too  much  now ;  and  if  I  once  broke  the  Cobbler,  followed,  too,  by  a  thin,  gaunt  girl, 
rule,  and  became  a  tipyjler,  what  would  happen  !  whom  he  pompously  called  his  housekeeper,  but 
to  Juliet  Araminta  ?  For  her  sake,  don't  press  ;  who,  in  sober  truth,  was  sei"vant-of-all-work. 
me?"  I  Wife   he  had  none  —  his  horoscope,  he  said, 

"  Oh,  do  go,  Grandy ;  he  never  drinks — never  '  having  Saturn  in  square  to  the  Seventh  House, 
anv  thing  stronger  than  tea,  I  assure  you,  Sir ;  '  forbade  him  to  venture  upon  matrimony.  All 
it  can't  be  that."  !  gathered  round  the  picture ;  all  admired,  and 

"  It  is,  silly  child,  and  nothing  else,"  said  ^  with  justice — it  was  a  clief-dccuvre.  Vance  in 
Waife  positively — drawing  himself  up.  "  Ex-  ,  his  maturest  day  never  painted  more  charming- 
cuse  me."  "  \  !}'•    The  three  pounds  proved  to  be  the  best  out- 

Lionel  bef'an  brushing  his  hat  with  his  sleeve,  1  lay  of  capital  he  had  ever  made.    Pleased  with 


and  his  face  worked;  at  last  he  said,  "Well, 
Sir,  then  may  I  ask  another  favor?  Mr.  Vance 
and  I  are  going  to-morrow,  after  the  sitting,  to 
see  nam])ton  Court ;  we  have  kept  that  excur- 
sion to  the  last  before  leaving  these  parts. 
Would  you  and  little  Sophy  come  with  us  in  the 
boat  ?  we  will  have  no  whisky-toddy,  and  we 
will  bring  you  both  safe  home." 

Waife.  " "  What — I — what — 1 1  You  are  very 
young,  Sir — a  gentleman  born  and  bred,  I'll 
swear ;  and  you  to  be  seen,  perhaps  by  some  of 
your  friends  or  family,  with  an  old  vagrant  like 
me,  in  the  Queen's  palace — the  public  gardens ! 
I  should  be  the  vilest  wretch  if  I  took  such  ad- 
vantage of  your  goodness.  'Pretty  company,' 
they  would  say,  '  you  have  got  into.'  With  me 
— with  me!  Don't  be  alarmed,  Sir.  Vance — 
not  to  be  thought  of." 

The  young  men  were  deeply  affected. 

"I  can't  accept  that  reason,"  said  Lionel, 
tremulously.  '"Though  I  must  not  presume  to 
derange  your  habits.  But  she  may  go  with  us, 
mayn't  she  ?  We'll  take  care  of  her,  and  she  is 
dressed  so  plainly  and  neatly,  and  looks  such  a 
little  lady"  (turning  to  Vance). 

"  Yes.let  her  come  with  us,"  said  the  artist, 
benevolently  ;  though  he  by  no  means  shared  in 
Lionel's  enthusiastic  desire  for  her  company. 
He  thought  she  would  be  greatly  in  their  way. 

"  Heaven  bless  you  both !"  answered  Waife  ; 
"and  she  wants  a  holiday;  she  shall  have  it." 

"  I'd  rather  stay  with  you,  Grandy ;  you'll  be 
so  lone." 

"  No,  I  wish  to  be  out  all  to-mon-ow— the  in-  CHAPTEK  XLV. 

vestment!    I  shall  not  be  alone— making  friends    ^^^  Historian  takes  advantage  of  the  Bummer  hours 
with  our  future  companion,  Sophy."  vouchsafed  to  the  present  life  of  Mr.  Waife's  grand- 

'  And  can  do  without  me  alreadv  ? — heigh-  child,  in  order  to  throw  a  few  gleams  of  light  01}  her 
1      y,  '  past.     He  leads  her  into  the  Palace  of  our  Kings,  and 

•  r>,      1      ,  1  1,     X  i>        moralizes  thereon ;  and  entering  tlie  Royal  Gardens, 

VA^•CE.    "  So  that  S  settled  ;  gOOd-by  to  you.  shows  the  uncertainty  of  Human  Events,  and  the  inse- 

curity of  British  Laws,  by  the  abrupt  seizure  and  con- 
straiiied  deportation  of  an  innocent  and  unforeboding 
Englishman. 

Such  a  glorious  afternoon !     The  capricious 

English  summer  was  so  kind  that  day  to  the 

,    .,   . .       ,  jfl-  ,f     child  and  her  new  friends !    When  Sophv's  small 

by  their  exhibition  into  generous  impulses  and  nights  I  i    i     j      i      i  ii 

of  fancy,  checked  by  the  ungracious  severities  of  tlieir  j  foot  once  trod  the  sward,  had   she  been  really 

superiors,  as  e.xempiitied  in  the  instance  of  Cobbler  |  Queen  of  the  Green  People,  sward  and  footstep 
Merle  and  his  Seivant-of- All-Work.  !  ^.q^i j  „q^  u^oj-g  j„yously  have  met  together.   The 

The  next  day,  perhaps  with  the  idea  of  re-  I  grasshopper  bounded,  in  fearless  trust,  upon  the 
moving  all  scriiple  from  Sojihy's  mind,  Waife  hem  of  her  frock ;  she  threw  herself  down  on 
had  alreadv  gone  after  his  investment  when  the  the  gras.«,  and  caught  him,  but,  oh,  so  tender- 
friends  arrived.  Sophy  at  first  was  dull  and  dis-  ly ;  and  the  gay  insect,  dear  to  poet  and  fairy, 
pirited,  but  by  degrees"  she  brightened  up ;  and  seemed  to  look  at  her  from  that  qiiaint,  sharp 
when,  the  sitting  over  and  the  picture  done  (save  face  of  his  with  sagacious  recognition,  resting 
such  final  touches  as  Vance  reserved  for  solitarj-  calmly  on  the  palm  of  her  jiretty  hand ;  then 
studv),  she  was  permitted  to  gaze  at  her  own  '  when  he  sprang  off,  little  moth-like  butterflies 
effie'v,  she  burst  into  exclamations  of  frank  de-  '  peculiar  to  the  margins  of  running  waters,  quiv- 
light.  "Am  I  like  that!  is  it  possible?  Oh,  '  ered  up  from  the  herbage,  fluttering  round  her. 
how  beautiful !  Mr.  Merle,  Mr.  Merle,  Mr.  |  And  there,  in  front,  lay  the  Thames,  glittering 
Merle !"  and  running  out  of  the  room  before  :  through  the  willows,  Vance  getting  ready  the 
Vance  could  stop  her,  she  returned  with  the  i  boat,  Lionel  seated  by  her  side,  a  child  like  her- 


his  work,  he  was  pleased  even  with  that  unso- 
phisticated applause. 

'•You  must  have  Jlercuiy  and  Venus  very 
strongly  aspectcd,"  quoth  the  Cobbler;  "and 
if  you  have  the  Dragon's  Head  in  the  Tenth 
House,  you  may  count  on  being  much  talked  of 
after  you  are  dead." 

"After  I  am  dead!  —  sinister  omen  I"  said 
Vance,  discomjiosed.  "I  have  no  faith  in  art- 
ists who  count  on  being  talked  of  after  they  are 
dead.  Xever  knew  a  dauber  who  did  not !  But 
stand  back — time  flies — tie  up  your  hair — put 
on  your  bonnet,  Titania.  You  have  a  shawl? 
— not  tinsel,  I  hope ! — quieter  the  better.  You 
stay  and  see  to  her,  Lionel." 

Said  the  gaunt  servant-of-all-work  to  ]Mr. 
Merle — "I'd  let  the  gentleman  paint  me,  if  he 
likes  it — shall  I  tell  him,  master?" 

"  Go  back  to  the  bacon,  foolish  woman.  Why, 
he  gave  £3  for  her  likeness,  'cause  of  her  Ben- 
efics !  But  you'd  have  to  give  him  three  years' 
wages  afore  he'd  look  you  straight  in  the  face, 
'cause,  you  see,  your  Aspects  are  crooked. 
And,"  added  the  Cobbler,  philosophizing, 
"  when  the  Malefics  are  dead  agin  a  girl's  mug, 
man  is  so  constituted  by  natur  tliat  he  can't  take 
to  that  mug  unless  it  has  a  gold  handle.  Don't 
fret,  'tis  not  your  fault :  born  imder  Scorpio — 
coarse-limbed — dull  complexion — Head  of  the 
Dragon  aspected  of — In  fortunes  iu  all  four  an- 
gles!" 


CHAPTEK  XHI. 

Inspiring  effect  of  the  Fine  Arts :  the  Vulgar  are  moved 


26 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


self,  his  pride  of  incipient  manhood  all  forgotten ; 
happy  in  her  glee — she  loving  him  for  the  joy 
she  felt — and  blending  his  image  evermore  in 
her  remembrance  with  her  first  summer  holiday 
— with  sunny  beams — glistening  leaves — warb- 
ling birds — fairy  wings — sparkling  waves.  Oh 
to  live  so  in  a  child's  heart — innocent,  blessed, 
angel-like — better,  better  than  the  troubled  re- 
flection upon  woman's  later  thoughts  ;  better 
than  that  mournful  illusion,  over  which  tears  so 
bitter  are  daily  shed — better  than  First  Love  I 
They  entered  the  boat.  Sophy  had  never,  to 
the  best  of  her  recollection,  been  in  a  boat  be- 
fore. All  was  new  to  her ;  the  life-like  speed  of 
the  little  vessel — that  world  of  cool,  green  weeds, 
with  the  fish  darting  to  and  fro — the  musical 
chime  of  oars — those  distant,  stately  swans.  She 
was  silent  now — her  heart  was  very  full. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Sophy?"  asked 
Leonard,  resting  on  the  oar. 
/'Thinking — I  was  not  thinking." 

"What  then?" 

"I  don't  know — feeling,  I  suppose." 

"Feeling  what?" 

"As  if  between  sleep  and  waking — as  the 
■water  perhaps  feels,  with  the  sunlight  on  it !" 

"  Poetical,"  said  Vance,  who,  somewhat  of  a 
poet  himself,  naturally  sneered  at  poetical  tend- 
encies in  others.  "But  not  so  bad  in  its  way. 
Ah,  have  I  hurt  your  vanity  ?  there  are  tears  in 
your  eyes." 

"No,  Sir,"  said  Sophy,  falteringly.  "But  I 
was  thinking  then." 

"Ah,"  said  the  artist,  "that's  the  worst  of 
it ;  after  feehng  ever  comes  thought — what  was 
yours?" 

"  I  was  sorry  poor  grandfather  was  not  here, 
that's  all." 

"  It  was  not  our  fault ;  we  pressed  him  cor- 
dially," said  Lionel. 

"You  did,  indeed,  Sir — thank  you!  And  I 
don't  know  why  he  refused  you."  The  young 
men  exchanged  compassionate  glances. 

Lionel  then  sought  to  make  her  talk  of  her 
past  life — tell  him  more  of  Mrs.  Crane.  Who 
and  v.hat  was  she? 

Sophy  could  not,  or  would  not,  tell.  The  re- 
membrances were  painful ;  she  had  evidently 
tried  to  forget  them.  And  the  people  with 
whom  Waife  had  placed  her,  and  who  had  been 
kind? 

The  iliss  Burtons  —  and  they  kept  a  day- 
school,  and  taught  Sophy  to  read,  -vn-ite,  and 
cipher.  They  lived  near  London,  in  a  lane 
opening  on  a  great  common,  with  a  green  rail 
before  the  house,  and  had  a  good  many  pupils, 
and  kept  a  tortoise-shell  cat  and  a  canary.  Xot 
much  to  enlighten  her  listener  did  Sophy  impart 
here. 

And  now  they  neared  that  stately  palace,  rich 
in  associations  of  storm  and  splendor.  The 
grand  Cardinal — the  iron-clad  Protector ;  Dutch 
William  of  the  immortal  memory,  whom  we  try 
so  hard  to  like,  and,  in  spite  of  the  great  Whig 
historian,  that  Titian  of  English  prose,  can  only 
frigidly  respect.  Hard  task  for  us  Britons  to 
like  a  Dutchman  who  dethrones  his  father-in- 
law  and  drinks  schnaps.  Prejudice,  certainly ; 
but  so  it  is.  Harder  still  to  like  Dutch  William's 
unfilial  Frau  I  Like  Queen  Mary !  I  could  as 
soon  like  Queen  Goneril !  Romance  flies  from 
the  prosperous,  phlegmatic  .-Eneas;  flies  from 


his  plump  Lavinia,  his  "fidus  Achates,"  Ben- 
tinck,  flies  to  follow  the  poor,  deserted,  fugitive 
Stuart,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head.  Kings 
have  no  rights  divine,  except  when  deposed  and 
fallen ;  they  are  then  invested  with  the  awe  that 
belongs  to  each  solemn  image  of  mortal  vicissi- 
tude— Vicissitude  that  startles  the  Epicurean. 
'■  '■  insanientis  sapienticE  consultns"  and  strikes  from 
his  careless  lyre  the  notes  that  attest  a  God  I 
Some  proud  shadow  chases  another  from  the 
throne  of  Cyrus,  and  Horace  hears  in  the  thun- 
der the  rush  of  Diespiter,  and  identifies  Provi- 
dence with  the  Fortune  that  snatches  off  the 
diadem  in  her  whirring  swoop.*  But  fronts 
discrowned  take  a  new  majesty  to  generous  na- 
tures;—  in  all  sleek  prosperity  there  is  some- 
thing commonplace  —  in  all  grand  adversity, 
something  royal. 

The  boat  shot  to  the  shore ;  the  young  people 
landed,  and  entered  the  arch  of  the  desolate 
palace.  They  gazed  on  the  great  hall  and  the 
presence-chamber  and  the  long  suite  of  rooms, 
with  faded  portraits — Vance  as  an  artist,  Lionel 
as  an  enthusiastic,  well-read  boy,  Sophy  as  a  won- 
dering, bewildered,  ignorant  child.  And  then 
they  emerged  into  the  noble  garden,  with  its  re- 
gal trees.  Groups  were  there  of  well-dressed 
persons.  Vance  heard  himself  called  by  name. 
He  had  forgotten  the  London  world — forgotten, 
amidst  his  midsummer  ramblings  that  the  Lon- 
don season  was  still  ablaze — and  there,  strag- 
glers from  the  great  Focus,  fine  people,  with 
languid  tones  and  artificial  jaded  smiles,  caught 
him  in  his  wanderer's  dress,  and  walking  side 
by  side  with  the  infant  wonder  of  Mr.  Rugge's 
show,  exquisitely  neat  indeed,  but  still  in  a  col- 
ored print,  of  a  jiattern  familiar  to  his  observant 
eye  in  the  windows  of  many  a  shop  lavish  of 
tickets,  and  inviting  you  to  come  in  by  the  as- 
surance that  it  is  "selling  oft'."  The  artist 
stopped,  colored,  bowed,  answered  the  listless 
questions  pitt  to  him  with  shy  haste ;  he  then 
attempted  to  escape — they  would  not  let  him. 

"  You  must  come  back  and  dine  with  us  at  the 
Star  and  Garter,"  said  Lady  Selina  Vipont.  "A 
pleasant  party — you  know  most  of  them — the 
Dudley  Slowes,  dear  old  Lady  Frost,  those  pret- 
ty ladies  Prymme,  Janet  and  Wilhelmina." 

"We  can't  let  you  oft',"  said  sleepily  Mr. 
Crampe,  a  fashionable  wit,  who  rarely  made 
more  than  one  bon-mot  in  the  twenty-four  hours, 
and  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  in  a  torpid  state. 

Vance.  "  Really  you  are  too  kind,  but  I  am 
not  even  dressed  for — " 

Lady  Selixa.  "  So  charmingly  dressed — so 
picturesque !  Besides,  what  matters  ?  Every 
one  knows  who  you  are.  Where  on  earth  have 
you  been?" 

Vaxce.  "  Rambling  about,  taking  sketches."" 

Lady  Selixa  (directing  her  eye-glass  toward 
Lionel  and  Sophy,  who  stood  aloof).    "  But  your 


■  Valet  ima  summis 


Mutare,  et  insignia  attenuat  Deus, 
Obscura  proraens.     Hinc  apicem  rapax 
Fortuna  cum  stridore  acuto 
Sustulit, — hie  posuisse  gaudet." 

— HoEAT.  Carm.,  lib.  i.  ixsiv. 
The  concluding  allusion  is  evidently  to  the  Parthian 
revolutions,  and  the  changeful  fate  of  Phraates  IV.  ;  and 
I  do  not  feel  sure  that  the  preced^g  lines  upon  the  phe- 
nomenon of  the  thunder  in  a  serene  sky  have  not  a  latent 
and  half-allegorical  meaning,  dimly  applicable,  through- 
out, to  the  historical  reference  at  the  close. 


VniAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


companions,  your  brother  ? — and  that  pretty  lit- 
tle girl — vour  sister,  I  suppose  ?'* 


"  His  father  was  a  captain,  but  I  don't  know 
whether  he  was  a  Charlie." 
Vance' (shuddering).   •'No,  not  relations.    I\      Mr.  Crami-e;  (the  Wit).  "Charlies  are   ex- 
took  charize  of  the  boy — clever  young  fellow;  |  tinct !     I  have  the  la.st  in  a  fossil — box  and  alll" 


and  the  little  girl  is — " 

Lady  ^elina.  '*  Yes.     The  little  girl  is — " 
Vance.  '•  A  little  girl  as  you  sec  ;  and  very 

pretty,  as  you  say — subject  for  a  picture." 
Lady  Selina  (indifferently).    "  Oh,  let  the 

children  go  and  amuse  themselves  somewhere. 

Xow  we  iiave  found  you — positively  you  arc  our 

prisoner." 


General  laugh.     Wit  shut  uj)  again. 

Lady  Selina.  "  He  has  a  great  look  of  Char- 
lie Ilaughton.  Do  you  know  if  he  is  connect- 
ed with  that  extraordiuary  man,  Mr.  DarrcU  ?" 

V^NXE.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not.  What 
Mr.  Darrell  do  you  mean  ?" 

Lady  Selina,  with  one  of  those  sublime  looks 
of  celestial  pity  with  which  personages  in  the 


Lady  Selina  Vipont  was  one  of  the  queens  of  !  great  world  forgive  ignorance  of  names  and  gen 
London,  she  had  with  her  that  habit  of  com-  j  ealogies  in  those  not  born  within  its  orbit,  re- 
mand natural  to  such  royalties.     Frank  Vance  i  plied,  "  Oh,  to  be  sure  ;  it  is  not  exactly  in  the 


was  no  tuft-hunter,  but  once  under  social  influen- 
ces, thcv  had  their  effect  ou  him,  as  on  most  men 
who  are  blessed  with  noses  in  the  air.  Those 
great  ladies,  it  is  true,  never  bought  his  pictures, 
but  they  gave  him  the  position  whicli  induced 
others  to  buy  them.  Vance  loved  his  art;  his 
art  needed  its  career.  Its  career  was  certainly 
brightened  and  quickened  by  the  help  of  rank 
and  fashion. 

In  short.  Lady  Selina  triumphed,  and  the 
painter  stepped  back  to  Lionel.  '*  I  must  go  to 
Kichmond  with  these  people.  I  know  you'll 
excuse  me.  I  shall  be  back  to-night  somehow. 
By-the-by,  you  are  going  to  the  post-office  here 
for  the  letter  you  expect  from  your  mother ;  ask 
for  mine  too.  You  will  take  care  of  little  Sophy, 
and  (in  a  whisper)  hurry  her  out  of  the  garden, 
or  that  Grand  Mogul  feminine.  Lady  Selina, 
whose  condescension  would  crush  the  Andes, 
will  be  stopping  her  as  my  protegee,  falling  in 
raptures  with  that  horrid  colored  print,  saying, 
'  Dear  what  pretty  sprigs  I  where  can  such  things 
be  got  ?'  and  learning,  perhaps,  bow  Frank  Vance 
saved  the  Bandit's  Child  from  the  Remorseless 
Baron.  'Tis  your  turn  now.  Save  your  friend. 
The  Baron  was  a  lamb  compared  to  a  fine  lady." 
He  pressed  Lionel's  unresponding  hand,  and 
•was  off  to  join  the  polite  merrj'-making  of  the 
Frosts,  Slowes,  and  Brymmes. 

Lionel's  pride  ran  up  to  the  fever  heat  of  its 
thermometer ;  more  roused,  though,  on  behalf 
of  the  unconscious  Sophy  than  himself. 

"Let  us  come  into  the  town,  lady-bird,  and  ; 


way  of  your  delightful  art  to  know  Mr.  Darrell, 
one  of  the  fii-st  men  in  Parliament,  a  connec- 
tion of  mine." 

Lady  Frost  (nippingly).  "You  mean  Guy 
Darrell,  the  lawyer." 

Lad\'  Selina.  "Lawyer — true,  now  I  think 
of  it,  he  was  a  lawjer.  But  his  chief  fame  was 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  All  parties  agreed 
that  he  might  have  commanded  any  station;  but 
he  was  too  rich,  perhaps,  to  care  sufficiently 
about  office.  At  all  events.  Parliament  was  dis- 
solved when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputa- 
tion, and  he  refused  to  be  re-elected." 

One  Sir  Jasper  STOLLHEAD(amemberof  the 
House  of  Commons,  young,  wealthy,  a  constant 
attendant,  of  great  promise,  with  speeches  that 
were  filled  with  facts,  and  emptied  the  benches). 
"I  have  heard  of  him.  Before  my  time;  law- 
yers not  much  weight  in  the  House  now." 

Lady  Selina.  "I  am  told  that  Mr.  Darrell 
did  not  speak  like  a  lawyer.  But  his  career  is 
over — lives  in  the  country,  and  sees  nobody — a 
thousand  pities — a  connection  of  mine,  too — 
great  loss  to  the  country".  Ask  your  young  friend. 
iMr.  Vance,  if  Mr.  Darrell  is  not  his  relation.  I 
hope  so,  for  his  sake.  Now  that  our  party  is  in 
power,  Mr.  Darrell  could  command  any  thing 
for  othei-s,  though  he  has  ceased  to  act  with  us. 
Our  party  is  not  forgetful  of  talents." 

Lady  Frost  (with  icy  crispness).  "  I  should 
think  not ;  it  has  so  little  of  that  kind  to  remem- 
ber." 

Sir  Jasper.  "Talent  is  not  wanted  in  the 


choose  a  doll.     You  may  have  one  now  without  i  House  of  Commons  now — don't  go  down,  in  fact, 
fearof  distracting  you  from — what  I  hate  to    Business  assembly." 

think  you  ever  stooped  to  perform."  j      Lady  Selina  (suppressing  a  yawn).   "Beau- 

As  Lionel,  his  crest  erect,  and  nostril  dilated,  '  tiful  day !     We  had  better  think  of  going  back 
and  holding  Sophy  firmly  by  the  hand,  took  his    to  Richmond. 


way  out  from  the  gardens,  he  was  obliged  to 
pass  the  patrician  party  of  whom  Vance  now 
made  one. 

His  countenance  and  air,  as  he  swept  by,  struck 
them  all,  especially  Lady  Selina.  "Avery  dis- 
tinguished-looking boy,"  said  she.  "  What  a 
fine  face !  Who  did  you  say  he  was,  Mr. 
Vance  ?" 

Vance.  "His  name  is  Ilaughton  —  Lionel 
Haughton  ?" 


General  assent,  and  slow  retreat. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Historian  records  the  attachment  to  public  business 
which  distinguislios  the  British  Lefrislator.— Touching 
instance  of  tlie  regret  which  ever  iu  patriotic  bosoms 
attends  the  neglect  of  a  public  duty. 


^ From  the  dusty  height  of  a  rumble-tumble 

L.toY  Selina.  '-Haughton!  Haughton!   Any  affixed  to  Lady  Selina  Vipont's  barouche,  and 

relation  to  poor,  dear  Captain  Haughton— Char-  by  the  animated  side  of  Sir  Jasper  StoUhead, 

lie  Haughton,  as  he  was  generally  called?"  Vance  caught  sight  of  Lionel  and  Sophy  at  a 

Vance,   knowing   little    more   of  his   young  corner  of  the  spaciotis  green  near  the  Palace, 

friend's  parentage  than  that  his  mother  let  lodg-  He  sighed,  he  envied  them.    He  thought  of  the 

ings,  at  which,  once  domiciliated  himself,  he  had  boat,  the  water,  the  honey-suckle  arbor  at  the 

made  the  boy's  acquaintance,  and  that  she  en-  little  inn — pleasures  he  had  denied  himself— 

joved  the  pension  of  a  captain's  widow,  replied  pleasures  all  in  his  own  way.    They  seemed  still 

carelessly  :  more  alluring  by  contrast  with  the  prospect  be- 


28 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


fore  him ;  formal  dinner  at  the  Star  and  Gar- 
ter, with  titled  Prj'mmes,  ISlov/es,  and  Frosts,  a 
couple  of  guineas  a-head,  including  light  wines, 
which  he  did  not  drink,  and  the  expense  of  a 
chaise  back  by  himself.  But  such  are  life  and 
its  social  duties — such,  above  all,  ambition  and 
a  career.  Who,  that  would  leave  a  name  on  his 
tombstone,  can  say  to  his  own  heart,  "Perish, 
Stars  and  Garters  ;  my  existence  shall  pass  from 
day  to  day  in  honey-suckle  arbors?" 

Sir  Jasper  Stollhead  interrupted  Vance's  rev- 
erie by  an  impassioned  sneeze — "  Dreadful  smell 
of  hay !"  said  the  legislator,  with  watery  eyes. 
"Are  you  subject  to  the  hay  fever  ?  I  am !  A — 
tisha — tisha — tisha  (sneezing) — country  fright- 
fully unwholesome  at  this  time  of  year.  And  to 
think  that  I  ought  now  to  be  in  the  House — in 
my  committee-room — no  smell  of  hay  there — 
most  important  committee." 

Va>-ce  (rousing  himself).  "  Ah ! — on  what  ?" 
Sm  Jasper  (regretfully).  "  Sewers  1" 


CHAPTER  XVL 

Signs  of  an  impending  revolution,  which,  like  all  revo- 
lutions, seems  to  come  of  a  sudden,  though  its  causes 
have  long  been  at  work;  and  to  go  off  in  a  tantrum, 
though  its  effects  must  run  on  to  the  end  of  a  history. 

LioxEL  could  not  find  in  the  toyshops  of  the 
village  a  doll  good  enough  to  satisfy  his  liberal 
inclinations,  but  he  bought  one  which  amply 
contented  the  humbler  aspirations  of  Sophy.  He 
then  strolled  to  the  post-office.  There  were  sev- 
eral letters  for  Vance — one  for  himself  in  his 
mother's  handwriting.  He  delayed  opening  it 
for  the  moment.  The  day  was  far  advanced — 
Sophy  must  be  hungry.  In  vain  she  declared 
she  was  not.  They  passed  by  a  fruiterer's  stall. 
The  strawberries  and  cherries  were  tempting!)^ 
fresh — the  sun  still  very  powerful.  At  the  back 
of  the  fruiterer's  was  a  small  garden,  or  rather 
orchard,  smiling  cool  through  the  open  door — 
little  tables  laid  out  there.  The  good  woman 
who  kept  the  shop  was  accustomed  to  the  wants 
and  tastes  of  humble  metropolitan  visitors.  But 
the  garden  was  luckily  now  empty — it  was  be- 
fore the  usual  hour  for  tea-parties ;  so  the  young 
folks  had  the  pleasantest  table  under  an  apple- 
tree,  and  the  choice  of  the  freshest  fruit.  Milk 
and  cakes  were  added  to  the  fare.  It  was  a 
banquet,  in  Sophy's  eyes,  worthy  that  happy 
day.  And  when  Lionel  had  finished  his  share 
of  the  feast,  eating  fast,  as  spirited  impatient 
boys,  formed  to  push  on  in  life  and  spoil  their 
digestion,  are  apt  to  do  ;  and  while  Sophy  was 
still  lingering  over  the  last  of  the  strawberries, 
he  threw  himself  back  on  his  chair,  and  drew 
forth  his  letter.  Lionel  was  extremely  fond  of 
his  mother,  but  her  letters  wei'e  not  often  those 
which  a  boy  is  over  eager  to  read.  It  is  not  all 
mothers  who  understand  what  boys  are — their 
quick  susceptibilities,  their  precocious  manli- 
ness, all  their  mystical  ways  and  oddities.  A 
letter  from  Mrs.  Haughton  generally  somewhat 
fretted  and  irritated  Lionel's  high-strung  nerves, 
and  he  had  instinctively  put  oft'  the  task  of  read- 
ing the  one  he  held,  till  satisfied  hunger  and 
cool-breathing  shadows,  and  rest  from  the  dusty 
road,  had  lent  their  soothing  aid  to  his  undevel- 
oped philosophy. 

He  broke  the  seal  slowly ;  another  letter  was 


inclosed  within.  At  the  first  few  words  his  coun- 
tenance changed ;  he  uttered  a  slight  exclama- 
tion, read  on  eagerly;  then,  before  concluding 
his  mother's  epistle,  hastily  tore  open  that  which 
it  had  contained,  ran  his  eye  over  its  contents, 
and,  dropping  both  letters  on  the  turf  below, 
rested  his  face  on  his  hand,  in  agitated  thought. 
Thus  ran  his  mother's  letter  : 

"My  Dear  Boy, — How  could  you?  Do  it 
slyly ! !  Unknown  to  your  own  mother ! ! !  I 
could  not  believe  it  of  you  ! !  ! !  Take  advantage 
of  my  confidence  in  showing  you  the  letters  of 
your  father's  cousin,  to  write  to  himself — clan- 
destinely ! — you,  who  I  thought  had  such  an  open 
character,  and  who  ought  to  ajipreciate  mine. 
Every  one  who  knows  me  says  I  am  a  woman  in 
ten  thousand — not  for  beauty  and  talent  (though 
I  have  had  my  admirers  for  them  too),  but  for 
GOODNESS !  As  a  wife  and  mother,  I  ma)'  say  I 
have  been  exemplary.  I  had  sore  trials  with  the 
dear  captain — and  immense  temptations.  But 
he  said  on  his  death-bed,  '  Jessica,  you  are  an 
angel.'  And  I  have  had  offers  since — immense 
offers — but  I  devoted  myself  to  my  child,  as  you 
know.  And  what  I  have  put  up  with,  letting  the 
first  floor,  nobody  can  tell ;  and  only  a  widow's 
pension — going  before  a  magistrate  to  get  it  paid. 
And  to  think  my  own  child,  for  whom  I  have 
borne  so  much,  should  behave  so  cruelly  to  me ! 
Clandestine!  'tis  that  which  stabs  me.  Mrs.  In- 
man  found  me  crying,  and  said,  '  What  is  the 
matter? — you,  who  are  such  an  angel,  crying 
like  a  baby !'  And  I  could  not  help  saying,  '  'Tis 
the  serpent's  tooth,  Mrs.  I.'  What  you  wrote  to 
your  benefactor  (and  I  had  hoped  patron)  I  don't 
care  to  guess;  something  very  rude  and  impru- 
dent it  must  be,  judging  by  the  few  lines  he  ad- 
dressed to  me.  I  don't  mind  copying  them  for 
you  to  read.  All  my  acts  are  above  board — as 
often  and  often  Captain  H.  used  to  say,  '  Your 
heart  is  in  a  glass-case,  Jessica ;'  and  so  it  is ' 
but  my  xon  tcrjis  his  under  lock  and  key. 

"  '  Madam'  (this  is  what  he  writes  to  me), '  your 
son  has  thought  fit  to  infringe  the  condition  upon 
which  I  agreed  to  assist  you  on  his  behalf.  I 
inclose  a  reply  to  himself,  which  I  beg  you  will 
give  to  his  own  hands  without  breaking  the  seal. 
Since  it  did  not  seem  to  you  indiscreet  to  com- 
municate to  a  boy  of  his  years  letters  written 
solely  to  yourself,  you  can  not  blame  me  if  I  take 
your  implied  estimate  of  his  capacity  to  judge 
for  himself  of  the  nature  of  a  correspondence, 
and  of  the  views  and  temper  of.  Madam,  your 
vcrj'  obedient  servant.'  And  that's  all,  to  me. 
I  send  his  letter  to  you — seal  unbroken.  I  con- 
clude he  has  done  with  you  forever,  and  your 
CAREER  is  lost !  But  if  it  bo  so,  oh,  my  poor, 
poor  child  !  at  that  thought  I  have  not  the  heart 
to  scold  you  farther.  If  it  be  so,  come  home  to 
me,  and  I'll  work  and  slave  for  you,  and  you  shall 
keep  up  your  head  and  be  a  gentleman  still,  as 
you  are,  every  inch  of  you.  Don't  mind  what 
I've  said  at  the  beginning,  dear  —  don't!  yon 
know  I'm  hasty,  and  I  was  hurt.  But  you  could 
not  mean  to  be  sly  and  underhand — 'twas  only 
your  high  spirit — and  it  was  my  fault ;  I  should 
not  have  shown  you  the  letters.  I  hope  you  are 
well,  and  have  quite  lost  that  nasty  cough,  and 
that  Jlr.  Vance  treats  you  with  proper  respect. 
I  think  him  rather  too  pushing  and  familiar, 
though  a  pleasant  young  man  on  the  whole. 


WHAT  -WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


29 


But,  after  all,  he  is  only  a  painter.  Bless  you, 
niv  child,  and  don't  have  secrets  a^jain  from 
vour  poor  mother,  Jessica  Haugutos." 

The  inclosed  letter  was  as  follows : 
"Lionel  Haughton, — Some  men  might  be 
displeased  at  receiWnp  such  a  letter  as  you  have 
addressed  to  me;  I  am  not.  At  your  years, 
and  under  the  same  circumstances,  I  mij;ht 
have  written  a  letter  much  in  the  same  spirit. 
Relieve  your  mind — as  yet  you  owe  me  no  obli- 
jrations ;  vou  have  only  received  back  a  debt  due 


Sophy's  tears  flowed  softly,  noiselessly. 

"  Cheer  up,  lady-bird ;  I  wish  you  liked  me 
half  as  much  as  I  like  you !" 

"  I  do  like  you — oh,  so  much  !"  cried  Sophy, 
passionately. 

"  Well,  then,  vou  can  write,  you  say  ?"' 

"A  little." 

'*  You  shall  write  to  me  now  and  then,  and  I 
:  to  you.  I'll  talk  to  your  grandfather  about  it. 
\  Ah,  there  he  is,  surely !" 

I      The  boat  now  ran  into  the  shelving  creek, 
and  bv  the  honev-suckle  arbor  stood  Gentleman 


to  you.     My  father  was  poor ;  your  grandfather,    -^'aife.  leaning  on  his  stick 


Robert  Haughton,  assisted  him  in  the  cost  of  my 
education.  1  have  assisted  your  father's  son  ; 
we  are  quits.  Before,  however,  we  decide  on 
having  done  with  each  other  for  the  future.  I 
suf  f'cst  to  vou  to  pay  me  a  short  visit.  Probably 
I  shall  not  like  you,  nor  you  me.  But  we  are 
both  gentlemen,  and  need  not  show  dislike  too 
ccarselv.  If  you  decide  on  coming,  come  at 
once,  or  possibly  you  may  not  find  me  here.  If 
~  shall  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your 


'■You  are  late,"  said  the  actor,  as  they  land- 
ed, and  Sopky  sprang  into  his  arms.  "  I  began 
to  be  imeasy,  and  came  here  to  inquire  after 
you.     You  have  not  caught  cold,  child?" 

Sophy.  "  Oh,  no." 

Lionel.  '•  She  is  the  best  of  children.  Pray, 
come  into  the  inn,  Mr.  Waife;  no  toddy,  but 
some  refreshment." 

Walfe.  "  I  thank  you — no,  Sir ;  I  wish  to  get 
I  walk  slowly ;  it  will  be  dark 


you  refuse,  I  snaii  nave  a  poor  opmiou  oi  ^  our  ,  jjQjjjg  ^t  once, 
sense  and  temper,  and  in  a  week  I  shall  have  goon." 
forgotten  your  existence.  I  ought  to  add  that  |  Lionel  tried  in  vain  to  detain  him.  There 
your  father  and  I  were  once  wai-m  friends,  and  ;  ^^^^^  ^  certain  change  in  Mr.  Waiie"s  manner  to 
that  by  descent  I  am  the  head  not  only  ot  my  :  j^;^ .  jj  ^^.^  jj^^^}^  ^^^.^  distant— it  was  even 
own  race,  which  ends  with  me,  but  of  the  Haugh-  j  pe^ijii^  jf  n^t  surlv.  Lionel  could  not  account 
ton  family,  of  which,  though  your  line  assumed  j  f^j.  jt_thought  it  mere  whim  at  first,  but 'as  he 
the  name,  it  was  but  a  vounser  branch.     Now-  


walked  part  of  the  way  back  with  them  toward 
the  village,  this  asperity  continued,  nay,  in- 
creased. Lionel  was  hurt ;  he  arrested  his 
steps. 

"I  see  you  wish  to  have  your  grandchild  to 
yourself  liow.  May  I  call  early  to-morrow? 
Sophy  will  tell  you  that  I  hope  we  may  not  al- 
together lose  sight  of  each  other.     I  will  give 


adays  young  men  are  probably  not  brought  up 
to  care  for  these  things — I  was.     Yours, 

"  Gtrr  Hacgutox  Daeeell. 
*'  Manor  House,  Fawley." 

Sophy  picked  up  the  fallen  letters,  placed 
them  on  Lionel's  lap,  and  looked  into  his  face 
wistfuUv.      He   smiled,  resumed   his   mother's       _ 

epistle, 'and  read  the  concludintj  passages  which  ;  you  my  address  when  I  call." 
he  had  before  omitted.     Their  sudden  turn  from  j      "  What  time  to-morrow.  Sir  ?" 
reproof  to  tenderness  melted  him.     He  bcjan        "About  nine."  ,        ,,     ,  . 

to  feel  that  his  mother  had  a  right  to  blame  I  Waife  bowed  his  head  and  walked  on,  but 
him  for  an  act  of  concealment.  Still  she  never  ,  Sophy  looked  back  toward  her  boy  fnend,  sor- 
wonli  have  consented  to  his  writing  such  a  let-  \  rowfully,  gratefully— milight  in  the  skies  that 
ter  •  and  had  that  letter  been  attended  with  so  ,  had  been  so  sunny— twilight  in  her  face  that 
ill  a  result  ?  Aaain  he  read  Mr.  Darrell's  blunt  had  betiQ  so  glad  '.  She  looked  once,  twice, 
bat  not  offensive  lines.  His  pride  was  soothed  thrice,  as  Lionel  halted  on  the  road  and  kissed 
— whv  should  he  not  now  love  his  father's  his  hand.  The  third  time  "S\  aife  said,  with  un- 
friend ?  He  rose  brisklv,  paid  for  the  fruit,  and  wonted  crossness- 
went  his  wav  back  to  the  boat  with  Sophy.  As  |  "  Enough  of  that,  Sophy ;  looking  after  young 
his  oars  cut"  the  wave  he  talked  gayly,  but  he  I  men  is  not  proper 
ceased  to  interrogate  Sophy  on  her  past.     Ener 


petic,  sanguine,  ambitious,  his  o\\"n  future  en- 
tered now  into  his  thoughts.  Still,  when  the 
sun  sunk  as  the  inn  came  partially  into  view  from 
the  winding  of  the  banks  and  the  fringe  of  the 
willows,  his  mind  again  settled  on  the  patient 


What  does  he  mean  about 
•seeing  each  other,  and  giving  me  his  ad- 
dress ?'  " 

'•  He  wished  me  to  write  to  him  sometimes, 
and  he  would  write  to  me." 

Waife's  brow  contracted  ;  but  if,  in  the  excess 
of  grandfatherly  caution,  he  could  have   sup- 


quiet  little  eirl,  who  had  not  ventured  to  ask  posed  that  the  bright-hearted  boy  of  seventeen 
him  one  question  in  return  for  all  he  had  put  meditated  ulterior  ill  to  that  fairj-  child  m  such 
BO  unceremoniously  to  her.  Indeed,  she  was  si-  a  scheme  for  correspondence,  he  must  have  been 
lently  musing  over  words  he  had  inconsiderately  \  in  his  dotage,  and  he  had  not  hitherto  evinced 
let  fall — ••  What  I  hate  to  think  vou  had  ever    any  signs  of  that. 

stooped  to  perform."  Little  could  Lionel  guess  |  Farewell,  pretty  Sophy!  the  evening  star 
the  unquiet  thoughts  which  those  words  might ,  shines  upon  yon  elm-tree  that  hides  thee  from 
hereafter  call  forth  from  the  brooding,  deepen-  '  '-"-      ^'"''="^ — f^-iir,^  nr,v^^-«  th^  si.mmer  land- 


ing meditations  of  lonely  childhood  I  At  length,  i 
said  the  boy,  abruptly,  as  he  had  said  once  be-  j 
fore—  '  i 

'•  I  wish,  Sophy,  you  were  my  sister."  He 
aided,  in  a  saddened  tone,  '•  I  never  had  a  sister 
— I  have  so  longed  for  one !  However,  surely 
we  shall  meet  ag^^.  You  go  to-morrow — so 
must  I." 


riew.  Fading — fading  prows  the  summer  land- 
scape; faded  already  from  the  landscape  thy 
gentle  image !  So  ends  a  holiday  in  life.  Hal- 
low it,  Sophy ;  hallow  it,  Lionel.  Life's  holi- 
days arc  not  too  manv ! 


g^- 


30 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

By  this  chapter  it  appeareth  that  he  who  sets  out  on  a  ca- 
reer can  scarcely  expect  to  walk  in  perfect  comfort,  if 
he  exchange  liis  own  thiclc-soled  shoes  for  dress-boots 
■which  M-ere  made  for  another  man's  measure,  and  that 
the  said  hootj  may  not  the  less  pinch  for  being  brilliant- 
ly varnished. — It  also  showeth  for  the  instruction  of  Men 
and  States,  tlie  connection  between  democratic  opinion 
and  wounded  self-love ;  so  that,  if  some  Liberal  states- 
man desire  to  rouse  against  an  aristocracy  the  class 
just  below  it,  he  has  only  to  persuade  a  fine  lady  to  be 
exceedingly  civil  "to  that  sort  of  people." 

Vance,  returning  late  at  night,  found  liis 
friend  still  up  in  the  little  parlor,  the  windows 
open,  pacing  the  floor  with  restless  strides,  stop- 
ping now  and  then  to  look  at  the  moon  upon  the 
river. 

"  Such  a  day  as  I  have  had !  and  twelve  shil- 
lings for  the  fly,  'pikes  not  included,"  said  Vance, 
much  out  of  humor. 

"  '  I  fly  from  plate,  I  fly  from  pomp, 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin;' 

I  forget  the  third  line ;  I  know  the  last  is, 

'  To  find  my  welcome  at  an  inn.' 
You  are  silent :  I  annoyed  you  by  going — could 
not  help  it — pity  me,  and  lock  up  your  pride." 

"  No,  my  dear  Vance,  I  was  hurt  for  a  mo- 
ment— but  that's  long  since  over !" 

"  Still  you  seem  to  have  something  on  your 
mind,"  said  Vance,  who  had  now  finished  read- 
ing his  letters,  lighted  his  cigar,  and  was  lean- 
ing against  the  window  as  the  boy  continued  to 
walk  to  and  fro. 

"That  is  true — I  have.  I  should  like  your 
advice.  Read  that  letter.  Ought  I  to  go  ? — 
wotild  it  look  mercenary — grasping  ?  You  know 
what  I  mean." 

Vance  approached  the  candles,  and  took  the 
letter.  He  glanced  first  at  the  signature.  "Dar- 
rell !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  it  is  so,  then !"  He 
read  with  great  attention,  put  down  the  letter, 
and  shook  Lionel  by  the  hand.  "  I  congratu- 
late you ;  all  is  settled  as  it  should  be.  Go  ?  of 
course— you  would  be  an  ill-mannered  lout  if 
you  did  not.  Is  it  far  from  hence — must  you 
return  to  town  first  ?" 

Lionel.  "No!  I  find  I  can  get  across  the 
country — two  hours  by  the  railway.  There  is  a 
station  at  the  town  which  bears  the  postmark 
of  the  letter.  I  shall  make  for  that,  if  you  ad- 
vise it." 

"  You  knew  I  should  advise  it,  or  you  would 
not  have  made  those  researches  into  Brad- 
shaw." 

"  Shrewdly  said,"  answered  Lionel,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  but  I  wished  for  your  sanction  of  my 
crude  impressions." 

"You  never  told  me  yotir  cousin's  name  was 
Dan-ell — not  that  I  should  have  been  much 
wiser,  if  you  had,  but,  thunder  and  lightning, 
Lionel,  do  you  know  that  your  cousin  Darrell 
is  a  famous  man  ?" 

Lionel.  "Famous!  —  nonsense.  I  suppose 
he  was  a  good  lawyer,  for  I  have  heard  my 
mother  say,  with  a  sort  of  contempt,  that  he 
had  made  a  great  fortune  at  the  bar  I" 

Vance.  "But  he  was  in  Parliament." 

Lionel.  "Was  he?     I  did  not  know." 

Vance.  "And  this  is  senatorial  fame!  You 
never  heard  your  school-fellows  talk  of  Mr.  Dar- 
rell?— they  would  not  have  known  his  name  if 
yoti  had  boasted  of  it!" 

Lionel.  "  Certainly  not." 


Vance.  "  Would  your  school-fellows  have 
known  the  names  of  Wilkie.  of  Landseer,  of 
Turner,  Maclise — I  speak  of  Painters!" 

Lionel.  "  I  should  think  so,  indeed." 

Vance  (soliloquizing).  "  And  yet  Her  Serene 
Sublimityship,  Lady  Selina  Vipont,  says  to  me 
with  divine  compassion,  '  Not  in  the  way  of  your 
delightful  art  to  know  such  men  as  Sir.  Dar- 
rell !'  Oh,  as  if  I  did  not  see  through  it — oh, 
as  if  I  did  not  see  through  it  too  when  she  said, 
apropos  of  my  jean  cap  and  velveteen  jacket, 
'  What  matters  liow  you  dress  ?  Every  one  knows 
who  you  are !'  Would  she  have  said  that  to  the 
Earl  of  Dunder,  or  even  to  Sir  Jasper  Stoll- 
head  ?  No.  I  am  the  painter  Frank  Vance — 
nothing  more  nor  less ;  and  if  I  stood  on  my 
head  in  a  check  shirt  and  a  sky-colored  apron, 
Lady  Selina  Vipont  would  kindly  murmur, 
'  Only  Frank  Vance  the  painter — what  does  it 
signify  ?'  Aha ! — and  they  think  to  put  me  to 
use ! — puppets  and  lay  figures ! — it  is  I  who  put 
them  to  use!  Harkye,  Lionel,  you  are  nearer 
akin  to  these  fine  folks  than  I  knew  of.  Promise 
me  one  thing :  you  may  become  of  their  set,  by 
right  of  your  famous  Mr.  Darrell ;  if  ever  you 
hear  an  artist,  musician,  scribbler,  no  matter 
what,  ridiculed  as  a  tuft-hunter — seeking  the 
great — and  so  forth — before  you  join  in  the 
laugh,  ask  some  great  man's  son,  with  a  pedi- 
gree that  dates  from  the  Ark,  '  Are  you  not  a 
toad-eater  too?  Do  you  want  political  influ- 
ence?— do  you  stand  contested  elections? — do 
you  curry  and  fawn  upon  greasy  Sam  the  butch- 
er, and  grimy  Tom  the  blacksmith  for  a  vote  ? 
Why  ?  useful  to  your  career — necessary  to  your 
ambition !'  Aha !  is  it  meaner  to  curry  and 
fawn  upon  whitehanded  women  and  elegant 
coxcombs?  Tut,  tut!  useful  to  a  career — nec- 
essary to  ambition?"  Vance  paused,  out  of 
breath.  The  spoiled  darling  of  the  circles — he 
— to  talk  such  radical  rubbish !  Certainly  he 
must  have  taken  his  two  guineas'  worth  out  of 
those  light  wines.  Nothing  so  treacherous ! 
they  inflame  the  brain  like  tire,  while  melting 
on  the  palate  like  ice.  All  inhabitants  of  light- 
wine  countries  are  quarrelsome  and  democratic. 

Lionel  (astounded).  "  No  one,  I  am  sure, 
could  have  meant  to  call  you  a  tuft-hunter — 
of  course,  every  one  knows  that  a  great  paint- 
er— " 

Vance.  "  Dates  from  Michael  Angelo,  if  not 
from  Zeuxis!  Common  individuals  trace  their 
pedigree  from  their  own  fathers ! — the  children 
of  Art  from  Art's  founders !" 

Oh  Vance,  Vance,  you  are  certainly  drunk ! 
If  that  comes  from  dining  with  fine  people  at 
the  Star  and  Garter,  you  would  be  a  happier 
man  and  as  good  a  painter  if  you  sipped  your 
toddy  in  honey-suckle  arbors. 

"But,"  said  Lionel,  bewildered,  and  striving 
to  turn  his  friend's  thoughts,  "  what  has  all  this 
to  do  with  Mr.  Darrell?" 

Vance.  "i\Ir.  Darrell  might  have  been  one 
of  the  first  men  in  the  kingdom.  Lady  Selina 
Vipont  says  so,  and  she  is  related,  I  believe,  to 
every  member  in  the  Cabinet.  Mr.  Darrell  can 
push  you  in  life,  and  make  your  fortune,  with- 
out any  great  trouble  on  your  own  part.  Bless 
your  stars,  and  rejoice  that  you  are  not  a  paint- 
er!" 

Lionel  flung  his  arm  round  the  artist's  broad 
breast.     "  Vance,  you  are  ^ael !"     It  was  his 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


31 


turn  to  console  the  painter,  as  the  painter  had 
three  nights  before  (apropos  of  the  same  Mr. 
Darrell)  consoled  him.  Vance  gradually  so- 
bered down,  and  the  young  men  walked  forth 
in  the  moonlight.  And  the  eternal  stars  had 
the  same  kind  looks  for  Vance  as  they  had 
vouchsafed  to  Lionel. 

"  When  do  you  start?"  asked  the  painter,  as 
they  mounted  the  stairs  to  bed. 

"  To-morrow  evening.  I  miss  the  early  train, 
for  I  must  call  first  and  take  leave  of  Sophy.  I 
hope  I  may  see  her  again  in  after-life." 

'•  And  i  hope,  for  your  sake,  that  if  so,  she 
may  not  be  in  the  same  colored  print  with  Lady 
Selina  Vipont's  eyeglass  upon  herl" 

"Whatl"  said  Lionel,  laughing;  "is  Lady 
Selina  Vipont  so  formidably  rude  ?" 

••  Kude  I  nobody  is  rude  in  that  delightful  set. 
Lady  Selina  Vipont  is  excruciatingly — civil." 


due  vibration  by  free  air  in  warm  daylight,  or 
sink  it  down  to  the  heart  of  the  ocean,  where 
the  air,  all  compressed,  fills  the  vessel  around 
it,*  and  the  chime,  heard  afar,  starts  thy  soul, 
checks  thy  footstep — unto  deep  calls  the  deeiJ — 
a  voice  from  the  ocean  is  borne  to  thy  soul. 

Where,  then,  the  change,  when  thou  sayest, 
"  Lo,  the  same  metal — why  so  faint-heard  the 
ringing?"  Ask  the  air  that  thou  seest  not,  or 
above  thee  in  the  sky,  or  below  thee  in  ocean. 
Art  thou  sure  that  the  bell,  so  faint-heard,  is 
not  struck  underneath  an  exhausted  receiver  ? 


CHAPTER  XVHL 

Being  devoted  exclusively  to  a  reflection,  not  inapposite 
to  the  events  in  this  history,  nor  to  those  in  any  other 
which  chronicles  the  life  of  man. 

Theke  is  one  warning  lesson  in  life  which 
few  of  us  have  not  received,  and  no  book  that  I 
can  call  to  memory  has  noted  down  with  an  ade- 
quate emphasis.  It  is  this,  '"Beware  of  part- 
ing!"' The  true  sadness  is  not  in  the  pain  of 
the  parting,  it  is  in  the  When  and  the  How 
you  are  to  meet  again  with  the  face  about  to 
vanish  from  your  view !  From  the  passionate 
farewell  to  the  woman  who  has  your  heart  in 
her  keeping,  to  the  cordial  good-by  exchanged 
with  pleasant  companions  at  a  watering-place, 
a  countiy-house,  or  the  close  of  a  festive  day's 
blithe  and  careless  excursion — a  cord,  stronger 
or  weaker,  is  snapped  asunder  in  every  parting, 
and  Time's  busy  fingers  are  not  practiced  in  re- 
splicing  broken  ties.  Meet  again  you  may : 
will  it  be  in  the  same  way? — with  the  same 
sympathies? — with  the  same  sentiments?  Will 
the  souls,  burning  on  in  diverse  paths,  unite 
once  more,  as  if  the  intenal  had  been  a  dreara? 
Rarely,  rarely  I  Have  you  not,  after  even  a 
year,  even  a  month's  absence,  returned  to  the 
same  place,  found  the  same  groups  reassem- 
bled, and  yet  sighed  to  yourself,  '•  But  where 
is  the  charm  that  once  breathed  from  the  spot, 
and  once  smiled  from  the  faces  ?  A  poet  has 
said — "  Eternity  itself  can  not  restore  the  loss 
struck  from  the  minute."  Are  you  happy  in 
the  spot  on  which  you  tany  with  the  persons 
whose  voices  are  now  melodious  to  your  ear  ? — 
beware  of  parting ;  or,  if  part  you  must,  say  not 
in  insolent  defiance  to  Time  and  Destiny — 
"  What  matters? — we  shall  soon  meet  again." 

Alas,  and  alas  I  when  we  think  of  the  lips 
which  murmured,  "  Soon  meet  again,"  and  re- 
member how,  in  heart,  soul,  and  thoi^ht,  we 
stood  forever  divided  the  one  from  the  other, 
when,  once  more  face  to  face,  we  each  inly  ex- 
claimed— "Met  again!" 

The  air  that  we  breathe  makes  the  medium 
through  which  sound  is  conveyed ;  be  the  in- 
Btniment  unchanged,  be  the  force  which  is  ap- 
plied to  it  the  same,  still,  the  air  that  thou  seest 
not,  the  air  to  thy  car  gives  the  music. 

King  a  bell  und^peath  an  exhausted  receiver, 
thou  wilt  scarcdl^ar  the  sound;  give  a  bell 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  irandering  inclinations  of  Xomad  Tribes  not  to  b« 
accounted  for  on  the  principles  of  action  peculiar  to 
civ.lized  men,  who  are  accustomed  to  live  in  good 
houses  and  able  to  pay  the  income-tax. — When  the 
money  that  once  belonged  to  a  man  civilized  vanibbes 
into  the  pockets  of  a  nomad,  neither  lawful  art  nor  oc- 
cult ccience  can,  with  certainty,  discover  what  he  will 
do  with  it. — Mr.  Vance  narrowly  escapes  well-merited 
punishment  from  the  nails  of  the  British  Fair. — Lionel 
Haughton,  in  the  temerity  of  youth,  braves  the  dangers 
I      of  a  British  railway. 

I  The  morning  was  dull  and  overcast,  rain 
gathering  in  the  air,  when  Vance  and  Lionel 
walked  to  Waife's  lodging.  As  Lionel  placed 
his  hand  on  the  knocker  of  the  private  door, 

:  the  Cobbler,  at  his  place  by  the  window  in  the 
stall  beside,  glanced  toward  him,  and  shook  his 

; head. 

i  ''  No  use  knocking,  gentlemen.  Will  you 
kindly  step  in? — this  way." 

I      "Do  you  mean  that  your  lodgers  are  out?" 

I  asked  Vance. 

I  "Gone!"  said  the  Cobbler,  thrusting  his  awl 
with  great  vehemence  through  the  leather  des- 
tined to  the  repair  of  a  plowman's  boot. 

"Gone — for  good!"  cried  Lionel;  "you  can 
not  mean  it.     I  call  by  appointment." 

"  Som',  Sir,  for  your  trouble.  Stop- a  bit ;  I 
have  a  letter  here  for  you."  The  Cobbler  dived 
into  a  drawer,  and,  from  a  medley  of  nails  and 
thongs,  drew  forth  a  letter  addressed  to  L. 
Haughton,  Esq. 

"  Is  this  from  Waife  ?  How  on  earth  did  he 
know  my  surname?  you  never  mentioned  it, 
Vance?" 

'  "Not  that  I  remember.  But  you  said  you 
found  him  at  the  inn,  and  they  knew  it  there. 

:  It  is  on  the  brass  plate  of  your  knapsack.     No 

.  matter — what  does  he  say  ?"  and  Vance  looked 

!  over  his  friend's  shoulder  and  read : 

I      "  Sir, — I  most  respectfully  thank  you  for  your 
'  condescending  kindness  to  me  and  my  grand- 
child ;  and  your  friend,  for  his  timely  and  gen- 
'  erous  aid.     You  will  pardon  me,  that  the  neces- 
sity which  knows  no  law  obliges  me  to  leave  this 
'  place  some  hours  before  the  time  of  your  pro- 
posed visit.     My  giandchild  says  you  intended 
I  to  ask  her  sometimes  to  write  to  you.     Excuse 
•  me.  Sir:  on   reflection,  you  will  perceive  how 
I  diftcrent  your  ways  of  life  are  from  those  which 
'  she  must'tread  with  me.     You  see  before  you  a 
I  man  w  ho — but  I  forget — you  see  him  no  more, 
j  and  probably  never  will.    Your  most  humble  and 
:  most  obliged  obedient  sonant,  W.  W." 

•  The  bell  in  a  sunk  diving-bell,  where  the  air  is  com- 
pressed, sounds  with  increa.'ed  power.     Sound   travels 
1  four  times  quicker  in  water  than  iu  the  upper  air. 


32 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Vance.  "Who  never  more  may  trouble  you, 
trouble  you !     Where  have  they  gone  ?" 

Cobbler.  "  Don't  know  ;  would  you  like  to 
take  a  peep  in  the  crystal  ?  perhaps  you've  the 
gift,  unbeknown." 

Vanck.  "Not I — Bah!    Come  awaj',  Lionel." 

"Did  not  Sophy  even  leave  any  message  for 
me?"  asked  the  boy,  sorrowfully. 

"  To  be  sure  she  did ;  I  forgot — no,  not  ex- 
actly a  message,  but  this — I  was  to  be  sure  to 
give  it  to  you."  And,  out  of  his  miscellaneous 
receptacle  the  Cobbler  extracted  a  little  book. 
Vance  looked  and  laughed — "  The  ButterjUes' 
Bull  and  the  Grasshoppers'  FeastJ" 

Lionel  did  not  share  the  laugh.  He  plucked 
the  book  to  himself,  and  read  on  the  fly-leaf,  in 
a  child's  irregular  scrawl,  blistered  too  with  the 
unmistakable  trace  of  fallen  tears,  these  words  : 

"  Do  not  Scorn  it.  I  have  nothing  else  I  can 
think  of  which  is  All  Mine.  Miss  Jane  Burton 
gave  it  me  for  being  Goode.  Grandfather  says 
you  are  too  high  for  us,  and  that  I  shall  not  see 
you  More ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  how  kind  you 
were — never — never. — Sophy." 

Said  the  Cobbler,  his  awl  upright  in  the  hand 
which  rested  on  his  knee,  "  What  a  plague  did 
the  'Stronomers  discover  Herschell  for?  You 
Bee,  Sir,"  addressing  Vance,  "  thiitgs  odd  and 
strange  all  come  along  o'  Herschell." 

"  What !— Sir  John  ?" 

"No,  the  star  he  poked  out.  He's  a  awful 
Star  for  females ! — hates  'em  like  poison !  I  sus- 
pect he's  been  worriting  hisself  into  her  nativi- 
ty, for  I  got  out  from  her  the  year,  month,  and 
day  she  was  born — hour  unbeknown — but,  cal- 
kelating  by  noon,  Herschell  was  dead  agin  her 
in  the  Third  and  Ninth  House — voyages,  travels, 
letters,  news,  church  matters,  and  sichlike.  But 
it  will  all  come  right  after  he's  transited.  Her 
Jupiter  must  be  good.  But  I  only  hope,"  added 
the  Cobbler,  solemnly,  "  that  they  won't  go  a 
discovering  any  more  stars.  The  world  did  a 
deal  better  without  the  new  one,  and  they  do 
talk  of  a  Neptune — as  bad  as  Saturn  !" 

"And  this  is  the  last  of  her!"  said  Lionel, 
sadly  putting  the  book  into  his  breast-pocket. 
"Heaven  shield  her  wherever  she  goes  !" 

Vance.  "  Don't  you  think  Waife  and  the 
poor  little  girl  will  come  back  again  ?" 

Cobbler.  "  P'raps ;  I  know  he  was  looking 
hard  into  the  county  map  at  the  stationer's  over 
the  way;  that  seems  as  if  he  did  not  mean  to 
go  very  far.     P'raps  he  may  come  back." 

Vance.  "Did  he  take  all  his  goods  with 
him?" 

Cobbler.  "Barrin'  an  old  box — nothing  in 
it,  I  expect,  but  theatre  rubbish — play-books, 
paints,  an  old  wig,  and  sichlike.  He  has  good 
clothes — always  had;  and  so  has  .she,  but  they 
don't  make  more  than  a  bundle." 

Vance.  "But  surely  you  must  know  what  the 
old  fellow's  project  is.  He  has  got  from  me  a 
great  sum — what  will  he  do  with  it  ?" 

Cobbler.  "Just  what  bas  been  a  bothering 
me.  What  will  he  do  with  it?  I  cast  a  figure 
to  know — could  not  make  it  out.  Strange  signs 
in  Twelfth  House.  Enemies  and  big  animals. 
Well,  well,  he's  a  marbellous  man,  and  if  he 
warn't  a  misbeliever  in  the  crystal,  I  should  say 
he  was  under  Herschell ;  for  you  see.  Sir"  (lay- 
ing hold  of  Vance's  button,  as  he  saw  that  gen- 
tleman turning  to  escape) — "you  seo  Herschell, 


though  he  be  a  sinister  chap  eno',  specially  in 
aflf'airs  connected  with  'tother  sex,  disposes  the 
native  to  dive  into  the  mysteries  of  natur.  I'm 
a  Herschell  man,  out  and  outer!  Born  in  March, 
and — " 

"As  mad  as  its  hares,"  muttered  Vance, 
wrenching  his  button  from  the  Cobbler's  gi'asp, 
and  impatiently  striding  off.  But  he  did  not  ef- 
fect his  escape  so  easily,  for,  close  at  hand,  just 
at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  a  female  group,  head- 
ed by  Merle's  gaunt  housekeeper,  had  been  si- 
lently collecting  from  the  moment  the  two 
friends  had  paused  at  the  Cobbler's  door.  And 
this  petticoated  divan  suddenly  closing  round 
the  painter,  one  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  anoth- 
er by  the  jacket,  and  a  third,  with  a  nose  upon 
which  somebody  had  sat  in  early  infancy,  whis- 
pered, "  Please,  Sir,  take  my  picter  fust." 

Vance  stared  aghast — "Your  picture,  you 
drab  !"  Here  another  model  of  rustic  charms, 
who  might  have  furnished  an  ideal  for  the  fat 
scullion  in  Tristram  Shandy,  bobbing  a  courtesy, 
put  in  her  rival  claim. 

"  Sir,  if  you  don't  objex  to  coming  in  to  the 
hitching,  after  the  family  has  gone  to  bed,  I 
don't  care  if  I  lets  you  make  a  minnytur  of  me 
for  two  pounds." 

"  Miniature  of  you,  porpoise  !" 

"  Polly,  Sir,  not  Porpus — ax  pardon.  I  shall 
clean  myself,  and  I  have  a  butyful  new  cap — 
Honej'tun,  and — " 

"Let  the  gentleman  go,  will  you?"  said  a 
third;  "I  am  supprised  at  ye,  Polly.  The 
hitching  unbeknown !  Sir,  I'm  in  the  nussary 
— yes.  Sir — and  missus  says  yon  may  take  me 
any  time,  purvided  you'll  take  the  babby,  iu  the 
back  parlor — yes,  Sii'.  No.  5  in  the  High  Street. 
Mrs.  Spratt — yes,  Sir.  Babby  has  had  the  small- 
pox— in  case  you're  a  married  gentleman  with 
a  family — quite  safe  there — yes.  Sir." 

Vance  could  endure  no  more,  and,  forgetful 
of  that  gallantry  which  should  never  desert  the 
male  sex,  burst  tlirough  the  phalanx  with  an 
anathema,  blackening  alike  the  beauty  and  the 
virtue  of  tlaose  on  whom  it  fell — that  would  have 
justified  a  cry  of  shame  from  every  manly  bo- 
som, and  at  once  changed  into  shrill  wrath  the 
sujjplicatory  tones  with  which  he  had  been  hith- 
erto addressed.  Down  the  street  he  hurried, 
and  down  the  street  followed  the  insulted  fair. 
"Hiss  —  hiss  —  no  gentleman,  no  gentleman! 
Aha — skulk  oft' — do — low  blaggurd  !"  shrieked 
Polly.  From  tlieir  counters  shop-folks  rushed 
to  their  doors.  Stray  dogs,  excited  by  the  clam- 
or, i-an  wildly  after  the  fugitive  man,  yelping 
"in  madding  bray!"  Vance,  fearing  to  be 
clawed  by  the  females  if  he  merely  walked,  sure 
to  be  bitten  by  the  dogs  if  he  ran,  ambled  on, 
strove  to  look  composed,  and  carry  his  nose  high 
in  its  native  air,  till,  clearing  the  street,  lie  saw 
a  hedgerow  to  the  riglit — leaped  it  with  an  agil- 
ity wliich  no  stimuhis  less  preternatural  than 
that  of  self-preservation  could  have  given  to  his 
limbs,  and  then  shot  oft'  like  an  arrow,  and  did 
not  stop  till,  out  ot  breath,  he  dropped  upon  the 
bench  in  the  sheltering  honey-suckle  arbor.  Here 
he  was  still  fanning  himself  with  his  cap,  and 
muttering  unmentionable  expletives,  when  he 
was  joined  by  Lionel,  who  had  tarried  behind 
to  talk  more  about  Sophy  to  the  Cobbler,  and 
who,  unconscious  that  the  din  which  smote  his 
ear  was   caused  by  his  ill-starred  friend,  had 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


33 


been  enticed  to  go  up  stairs  and  look  after 
8ophy  in  the  crystal — vainly.  When  Vance  had  ' 
recited  his  misadventures,  and  Lionel  had  surti-  | 
ciently  condoled  with  him,  it  became  time  for 
the  latter  to  pay  his  share  of  the  bill,  pack  up 
his  knapsack,  and  start  for  the  train.  Isow  the 
station  could  only  be  reached  by  penetrating  the 
heart  of  the  village,  and  Vance  swore  that  he 
had  had  enough  of  that.  ''Pester  said  he; 
"I  should  pass  right  before  No.  5  in  the  High 
Street,  and  the  nuss  and  the  babby  will  be  there 
on  the  threshold,  like  Virgil's  picture  of  the  in- 
fernal regions — 

•Iiifaiitumque  animaj  flente-s  in  limine  prime' 
We  will  take  leave  of  each  other  here.  I  shall 
go  by  the  boat  to  Chertsey  whenever  I  shall  have 
sutHciently  recovered  my  shaken  nerves.  There 
are  one  or  two  picturesque  spots  to  be  seen  in 
that  neigliborhood.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  in 
town ;  write  to  me  there,  and  tell  me  how  you 
get  on.  8hake  hands,  and  Heaven  speed  you. 
But,  ah,  now  you  have  paid  your  moiety  of  the 
bill,  have  you  enough  left  for  the  train?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  fare  is  but  a  few  shillings ;  but, 
to  be  sure,  a  fly  to  Fawley  ?  I  ought  not  to  go 
on  foot"  (proudly) ;  "  and,  too,  supposing  he  af- 
fronts me,  and  I  have  to  leave  iiis  house  sudden- 
ly? May  I  borrow  a  sovereign?  my  mother 
will  call  and  repay  it." 

Vaxck  (magnificently).  "  There  it  is,  and  not 
much  more  left  in  my  pui-se — that  cursed  Star 
and  Garter!  and  those  three  pounds  I" 

Lionel  (sighing).  "  Which  were  so  well  spent! 
Before  you  sell  that  picture,  do  let  me  make  a 
copy." 

Vance.  "Better  take  a  model  of  your  own. 
Village  full  of  them ;  you  could  bargain  with  a 
porpoise  for  half  the  money  which  I  was  duped 
into  squandering  away  on  a  chit !  But  don't 
look  so  gi'ave ;  you  may  copy  me  if  j'ou  can  I" 

"Time  to- start,  and  must  walk  brisk,  Sir," 
said  the  jolly  landlord,  looking  in. 

"  Good- by,  good-by." 

And  so  departed  Lionel  Haughton  upon  an 
emprise  as  momentous  to  that  youth-errant  as 
C 


I'erilous  Bridge  or  Dragon's  Cave  could  have 
been  to  knight-errant  of  old. 

"  Before  we  decide  on  having  done  with  each 
other,  a  short  visit" — so  ran  the  challenge  from 
him  who  had  every  thing  to  give  unto  him  who 
had  every  thing  to  gain.  And  how  did  Lionel 
Haughton,  the  ambitious  and  aspiring,  contem- 
plate the  venture  in  which  success  would  admit 
him  within  the  gates  of  the  golden  Carduel  an' 
equal  in  the  lists  with  the  sons  of  paladins,  or 
throw  him  back  to  the  anns  of  the  widow  who 
let  a  first  floor  in  the  back  streets  of  Timlico? 
Truth  to  say,  as  he  strode  musingly  toward  the 
station  for  starting,  where  the  smoke-cloud  now 
curled  from  the  wheel-track  of  iron — truth  to 
say,  the  anxious  doubt  which  disturbed  him  was 
not  that  which  his  friends  might  have  felt  on 
his  behalf.  In  words,  it  would  have  shaped  it- 
self thus,  "  Where  is  that  poor  little  Sophy  !  and 
what  will  become  of  her — what?"  But,  when, 
launched  on  the  journey,  hurried  on  to  its  goal, 
the  thought  of  the  ordeal  before  him  forced  it- 
self on  his  mind  he  muttered  inly  to  himself, 
'•Done  with  each  other;  let  it  be  as  he  pleases, 
so  that  I  do  not  fawn  on  his  pleasure.  Better  a 
million  times  enter  life  as  a  penniless  gentle- 
man, who  must  work  his  way  up  like  a  man, 
than  as  one  who  creeps  on  his  knees  into  for- 
tune, shaming  birthright  of  gentleman,  or  soil- 
ing honor  of  man."  Therefore  taking  into  ac-\ 
count  the  poor  cousin's  vigilant  pride  on  the  qui 
vive  for  oflense,  and  the  rich  cousin's  temper  (as 
judged  by  his  letters)  rude  enough  to  present  it, 
we  must  own  that  if  Lionel  Haughton  has  at  this 
moment  what  is  commonly  called  "  a  chance," 
the  question  as  yet  is  not,  what  is  that  chance, 
but  u-hat  u-ill  lie  do  with  it  f  And  as  the  reader 
advances  in  this  history,  he  will  acknowledge 
that  there  are  few  questions  in  this  world  so  fre- 
quently agitated,  to  which  the  solution  is  more 
important  to  each  puzzled  mortal,  than  that  upon 
which  starts  every  sage's  discovery,  ever}-  novel- 
ist's plot — that  which  applies  to  man's  life, 
from  its  first  sleep  in  the  cradle,  "  What  will 

HE  DO  WITH  IT  ?"' 


34 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


BOOK    II, 


CHAPTER  I. 

Primitive  character  of  the  country  in  certain  districts  of 
Great  Britain. — Connection  bttween  the  features  of 
surrounding  scenery  and  the  mental  and  moral  in- 
clinations of  man,  after  the  fashion  of  all  sound  Eth- 
nological Historians. — A  charioteer,  to  whom  an  expe- 
rience of  Briti.sh  Laws  suggests  an  ingenious  mode  of 
arresting  the  progress  of  Roman  Papacy,  carries  Lionel 
Haughton  and  his  fortunes  to  a  place  which  allows  of 
description  and  invites  repose. 

Is  safety,  but  with  naught  else  rare  enough, 
in  a  railway  train,  to  deserve  commemoration, 
Lionel  reached  the  station  to  which  he  was 
bound.  He  there  inquired  the  distance  to  Faw- 
ley  Manor  House ;  it  was  five  miles.  He  order- 
ed a  fly,  and  was  soon  wheeled  briskly  along  a 
rough  "parish-road,  through  a  country  strongly 
contrasting  the  gay  Kiver  Scenery  he  had  so 
lately  quitted.  Quite  as  English,  but  rather  the 
England  of  a  former  race  than  that  which  spreads 
round  our  own  generation  like  one  vast  suburb 
of  garden-ground  and  villas — Here,  nor  village, 
nor  spire,  nor  porter's  lodge  came  in  sight.  Rare 
even  were  the  corn-fields — wide  spaces  of  unin- 
closed  common  opened,  solitary  and  primitive, 
on  the  road,  bordered  by  large  woods,  chiefly  of 
beech,  closing  the  horizon  with  ridges  of  undu- 
lating green.  In  such  an  England,  Ivnights- 
Templars  might  have  wended  their  way  to  scat- 
tered monasteries,  or  fugitive  partisans  in  the 
bloody  Wars  of  the  Roses  have  found  shelter 
under  leafy  coverts. 

The  scene  had  its  romance,  its  beauty — half- 
savage,  half-gentle — leading  perforce  the  mind 
of  any  cultivated  and  imaginative  gazer  far  back 
from  the  present  day — waking  up  long-forgotten 
passages  from  old  poets.  The  stillness  of  such 
wastes  of  sward — such  deeps  of  woodland — in- 
duced the  nurture  of  reverie,  gravely  soft  and 
lulling.  There,  Ambition  might  give  rest  to  the 
wheel  of  Ixion,  Avarice  to  the  sieve  of  the  Dana- 
ids;  there,  disappointed  Love  might  muse  on 
the  brevity  of  all  human  passions,  and  count 
over  the  tortured  hearts  that  have  found  peace 
in  holy  meditation,  or  are  now  stilled  under 
grassy  knolls.  See  where,  at  the  crossing  of 
three"  roads  upon  the  waste,  the  landscape  sud- 
denly unfolds — an  upland  in  the  distance,  and 
on  the  upland  a  building,  the  first  sign  of  social 
man.  What  is  the  building?  only  a  silenced 
wind-mill — the  sails  dark  and  sharp  against  the 
dull,  leaden  sky. 

Lionel  touched  the  driver — "Are  we  yet  on 
Mr.  Darrell's  property?"  Of  the  extent  of  that 
property  he  had  involuntarily  conceived  a  vast 
idea. 

"Lord,  Sir,  no  ;  we  be  two  miles  from  Squire 
Darrell's.  He  han't  much  property  to  speak  of 
hereabouts.  But  he  bought  a  good  bit  o'  land, 
too,  some  years  ago,  ten  or  twelve  mile  t'other 
side  o'  the  county.  First  time  you  are  going  to 
IFawlev,  Sir  ?" 
"Yes." 

"Ah !  I  don't  mind  seeing  you  afore — and  I 
should  have  known  you  if  I  had,  for  it  is  seldom 


indeed  I  have  a  fare  toFawley  old  Manor  House. 
It  must  be,  I  take  it,  four  or  five  year  ago  sin"  I 
wor  there  with  a  gent,  and  he  went  away  while 
I  wor  feeding  the  horse — did  me  out  o'  my  back 
fare.  What  bisness  had  he  to  walk  when  he 
came  in  my  fly? — Shabby." 

"Mr.  Darrell  lives  very  retired,  then — sees 
few  persons  ?" 

"  'Spose  so.  I  never  see'd  him,  as  I  knows 
on ;  see'd  two  o'  his  bosses  though — rare  good 
uns;"  and  the  driver  whipped  on  his  own 
horse,  took  to  whistling,  and  Lionel  asked  no 
more. 

At  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  a  carriage- 
cate,  receding  from  the  road,  and  deeply  shad- 
owed by  venerable  trees — no  lodge.  The  driv- 
er, dismounting,  opened  the  gate. 

"Is  this  the  place?" 

The  driver  nodded  assent,  remounted,  and 
drove  on  rapidly  through  what  might,  by  court- 
esy, be  called  a  park.  The  inclosure  was  indeed 
little  beyond  that  of  a  good-sized  paddock — its 
boundaries  were  visible  on  every  side- — but  swell- 
ing uplands,  covered  with  massy  foliage,  sloped 
down  to  its  wild,  irregular  turf  soil — soil  poor 
for  pasturage,  but  pleasant  to  the  eye ;  with  dell 
and  dingle,  bosks  of  fantastic  pollards — dotted 
oaks  of  vast  growth — here  and  there  a  weird 
hollow  thorn-tree — patches  of  fern  and  gorse. 
Hoarse  and  loud  cawed  the  rooks — and  deep, 
deep  as  from  the  innermost  core  of  the  lovely 
woodlands,  came  the  mellow  notes  of  the  cuckoo. 
A  few  moments  more  a  wind  of  the  road  brought 
the  house  in  sight.  At  its  rear  lay  a  piece  of 
water,  scarcely  large  enough  to  be  styled  a  lake : 
— too  winding  in  its  shagg}-  banks — its  ends  too 
concealed  by  tree  and  islet  to  be  called  by  the 
dull  name  of  pond.  Such  as  it  was,  it  arrested 
the  eve  before  the  gaze  turned  toward  the  house 
— it  had  an  air  of  tranquillity  so  sequestered,  so 
solemn.  A  lively  man  of  the  world  would  have 
been  seized  with  spleen  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
it.  But  he  who  had  known  some  great  grief — 
some  anxious  care — would  have  drunk  the  calm 
into  his  weary  soul  like  an  anodyne.  The  house 
— small,  low,"  ancient,  about  the  date  of  Edward 
VI.,  before  the  statelier  architecture  of  Ehza- 
beth.  Few  houses  in  England  so  old,  indeed, 
as  Fawley  Manor  House.  A  vast  weight  of  roof, 
with  high  gables — windows  on  the  upper  stoiy 
projecting  far  over  the  lower  part — a  covered 
porch  with  a  coat  of  half-obliterated  arms  deep 
panneled  over  the  oak  door.  Nothing  grand, 
yet  all  how  venerable!  But  what  is  this?  Close 
beside  the  old,  quiet,  unassuming  Manor  House, 
rises  the  skeleton  of  a  superb  and  costly  pile-^ 
a  palace  uncompleted,  and  the  work  evidently 
suspended — perhaps  long  since,  perhaps  now 
forever.  No  busy  workmen  nor  animated  scaf- 
folding. The  perforated  battlements  roofed 
over  with  visible  haste — here  with  slate,  there 
with  tile ;  the  Elizabethan  mullion  casements 
unglazed  ;  some  roughly  boarded  across — some 
with   staring,  forlorn   apertures,    that   showed 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


35 


floorless  chambers — for  winds  to  whistle  through 
:ind  rats  to  tenant.  Weeds  and  long  grass  were 
.TOwing  over  blocks  of  stone  that  lay  at  hand. 
A  wallHower  had  forced  itself  into  root  on  the 
sill  of  a  giant  oriel.  The  eftect  was  startling. 
A  fabric  which  he  who  conceived  it  must  have 
founded  for  posterity — so  solid  its  masonry,  so 
thick  its  walls — and  thus  abruptly  left  to  mould- 
er— a  palace  constructed  for  the  reception  of 
crowding  guests — the  jjomp  of  stately  revels — 
abandoned  to  owl  and  bat.  And  the  homely 
old  house  beside  it,  which  that  lordly  hall  was 
doubtless  designed  to  replace,  looking  so  safe 
and  tranquil  at  the  batfled  presumption  of  its 
spectral  neighbor. 

The  driver  had  rung  the  bell,  and  now,  turn- 
ing back  to  the  chaise,  met  Lionel's  inquiring 
eye,  and  said — "  Yes  ;  Squire  Darrell  began  to 
build  that — many  years  ago — when  I  was  a  boy. 
I  heerd  say  it  was  to  be  the  show-house  of  the 
whole  county.  Been  stojiped  these  ten  or  a 
dozen  years." 

•'  Why  ? — do  you  know  ?" 

"  No  one  knows.  Squire  was  a  laryer,  I  b'leve 
— perhaps  he  put  it  into  Chancery.  My  wife's 
grandfather  was  put  into  Chancery  jist  as  he 
was  growing  up,  and  never  grew  afterward — 
never  got  out  o'  it — nout  ever  does.  There's  our 
churchwarden  comes  to  me  with  a  petition  to 
sign  agin  the  Pope.  Says  I,  '  Tliat  old  Pojje  is 
always  in  trouble — what's  he  bin  doiu'  now?' 
Sayshc,  ' Spreading !  He's  got  into Parlyment, 
and  he's  now  got  a  colledge,  and  we  pays  for  it. 
I  doesn't  know  how  to  stop  him.'  Saysl.  '  Put 
the  Pope  into  Chancery  along  with  wife's  grand- 
father, and  he'll  never  hold  up  his  head  agin.' " 

The  driver  had  thus  just  disposed  of  the  Pa- 
pacy wiien  an  elderly  servant,  out  of  livery, 
opened  the  door.  Lionel  sprung  from  the 
chaise,  and  paused  in  some  confusion — for  then, 
for  the  first  time,  there  darted  across  him  the 
idea  that  he  had  never  written  to  announce  his 
acceptance  of  Mr.  Darrell's  invitation — that  he 
ought  to  have  done  so — that  he  might  not  be  ex- 
pected. Meanwhile  the  senant  surveyed  him 
with  some  surprise.  "  Mr.  Darrell?"  hesitated 
Lionel,  inquiringly. 

"  Not  at  home,  Sir,"  replied  the  man,  as  if 
Lionel's  business  was  over,  and  he  had  only  to 
re-enter  his  chaise.  The  boy  was  naturally 
rather  bold  than  shy,  and  he  said,  with  a  certain 
assured  air,  '"My  name  is  Haughton.  I  come 
here  on  Mr.  Darrell's  invitation." 

The  ser\'aut's  face  changed  in  a  moment — he 
bowed  respectfully.  "  I  beg  pardon.  Sir.  I  will 
look  for  my  master — he  is  somewhere  on  the 
grounds."  The  servant  then  approached  the 
fly,  took  out  the  knapsack,  and  observing  Lionel 
had  his  purse  in  his  hand,  said — "Allow  me  to 
save  you  that  trouble.  Sir.  Driver,  round  to 
the  stable-yard."  Stepping  back  into  the  house, 
the  servant  threw  open  a  door  to  the  left,  on 
entrance,  and  ailvanced  a  chair — "If  you  will 
wait  here  a  moment,  Sir,  I  will  see  for  my 
master." 


CHAPTER  n. 

Guy  Darrell— and  Still'd  Life. 
The  room  in  which  Lionel  now  found  him- 
self was  singularly  quaint.     An  antiquarian  or 


architect  would  have  discovered  at  a  glance 
that,  at  some  period,  it  had  formed  part  of  the 
entrance-hall ;  and  when,  in  Elizabeth's  or 
James  the  First's  day,  the  refinement  in  man- 
ners began  to  penetrate  from  baronial  mansions 
to  the  homes  of  the  gentry-,  and  the  entrance- 
hall  ceased  to  be  the  common  refectory  of  the 
owner  and  his  dependents,  this  apartment  had 
been  screened  off  by  ])crforated  panels,  which, 
for  the  sake  of  warmth  and  comfort,  had  been 
filled  up  into  solid  wainscot  by  a  succeeding 
generation.  Thus  one  side  of  the  room  was 
richly  carved  with  geometrical  designs  and  ara- 
besque pilasters,  while  the  other  three  sides 
were  in  small  simple  panels,  with  a  dcej)  fan- 
tastic frieze  in  plaster,  depicting  a  deer-chase 
in  relief,  and  running  between  woodwork  and 
ceiling.  The  ceiling  itself  was  relieved  by  long 
pendants  without  any  apparent  meaning,  and 
iiy  the  crest  of  the  ])arrels,  a  heron,  wreathed 
round  with  the  family  motto,  "  Anlua  jutlt  Ar- 
dca/'  It  was  a  dining-room,  as  was  shown  by 
the  character  of  the  furniture.  But  there  was 
no  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  present  owner, 
and  had  clearly  been  none  on  the  part  of  his 
predecessor,  to  suit  the  furniture  to  the  room. 
This  last  was  of  the  heavy  graceless  taste  of 
George  the  First — cumbrous  chairs  in  walnut- 
tree — with  a  worm-eaten  mosaic  of  the  heron 
on  their  homely  backs,  and  a  faded  blue  worsted 
on  their  seats — a  marvelous  ugly  sideboard  to 
match,  and  on  it  a  couple  of  black  shagreen 
cases,  the  lids  of  which  were  flung  open,  and 
discovered  the  pistol-shaped  handles  of  silver 
knives.  The  mantle-piece  reached  to  the  ceil- 
ing, in  paneled  compartments,  with  heraldic 
shields,  and  supported  by  rude  stone  Caryatides. 
On  the  walls  were  several  pictures — family  por- 
traits, for  the  names  were  inscribed  on  the 
frames.  They  varied  in  date  from  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  to  that  of  George  I.  A  strong  family 
likeness  pervaded  them  all — high  features,  dark 
hair,  grave  aspects  —  save  indeed  one,  a  Sir 
Kal])h  Haughton  Darrell,  in  a  dress  that  spoke 
him  of  the  hoHday  date  of  Charles  II. — all 
knots,  lace,  and  ribbons ;  evidently  the  beau  of 
the  race ;  and  he  had  bine  eyes,  a  blondo  per- 
uke, a  careless  profligate  smile,  and  looked  al- 
together as  devil-me-care,  rakehelly,  handsome, 
good-for-naught,  as  ever  swore  at  a  drawer, 
beat  a  watchman,  charmed  a  lady,  terrified  a 
husband,  and  hummed  a  song  as  lie  pinked  his 
man. 

Lionel  was  still  gazing  upon  the  effigies  of 
this  airy  cavalier,  when  the  door  behind  him 
opened  very  noiselessly,  and  a  man  of  imposing 
presence  stood  on  the  threshold — stood  so  still, 
and  the  carved  mouldings  of  the  door-way  so 
shadowed,  and,  as  it  were,  cased  round  his  fig- 
ure, that  Lionel,  on  turning  quickly,  might  have 
mistaken  him  for  a  portrait  brought  into  bold 
relief,  from  its  frame,  by  a  sudden  fall  of  light. 
We  hear  it,  indeed,  familiarly  said  that  such  a 
one  is  like  an  old  picture.  Never  could  it  be 
more  appositely  said  than  of  the  face  on  which 
tlie  young  visitor  gazed,  much  startled  and  some- 
what awed.  Not  such  as  inferior  limners  had 
painted  in  the  portraits  there,  though  it  had 
something  in  common  with  those  family  linea- 
ments, but  such  as  might  have  looked  tranquil 
power  out  of  the  canvas  of  Titian. 

The  man  stepped  forward,  and  the  illusion 


3G 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


passed.     "I  thank  you,"  he  said,  holding  out:      "Vance — who  is  Vance?" 
his  hand   "for  taking  me  at  my  word,  and  an-  i      "The  artist — a  gi-eat  friend  of  mine.     Sure- 
swerino-  me  thus  in  person."     He  paused  a  mo-    ly,  Sir,  you  have  heard  of  him,  or  seen  his  pic- 
ment,  Purveying  Lionel's  countenance  with  a    tures?" 


keen  but  not  vmkindly  eye,  and  added  softly, 
"Very  like  your  father." 

At  "these  words  Lionel  involuntarily  pressed 
the  hand  which  he  had  taken.  That  hand  did 
not  return  the  pressure.  It  lay  an  instant  in 
Lionel's  warm  clasj^ — not  repelling,  jiot  respond- 
ing— and  was  then  very  gently  withdrawn. 

"Did  you  come  from  London?" 


"  Himself  and  his  pictures  arc  since  my  time. 
Days  tread  down  days  for  the  Recluse,  and  he 
forgets  that  celebrities  rise  with  their  suns,  to 
wane  with  their  moons — 

'  Triiditur  dies  die, 
Xovicque  pergunt  interire  lun.'e.'" 

"All  suns  do  not  set — all  moons  do  uotwanel" 
cried  Lionel,  with  blunt  enthusiasm.     "  When 


"No    Sir,  I  found  your  letter  yesterday  at    Horace  speaks  elsewhere  of  the  Julian  star,  he 


Hampton  Court.  I  had  been  staying  some  days 
in  that  neighborhood.  I  came  on  this  morn- 
ing— I  was  afraid,  too  unceremoniously;  your 
kind  welcome  reassiires  me  then." 

The  words  were  well  chosen,  and  frankly  said. 
Probably  they  pleased  the  host,  for  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  was,  on  the  whole,  pro- 
pitious;  but  he  merely  inclined  his  head  with  a 
kind  of  lofty  indifference,  then,  glancing  at  his 
watch,  he  rang  the  bell.  The  servant  entered 
promptly.  "Let  dinner  be  served  within  an 
hour." 

"Fray,  Sir,"  said  Lionel,  "do  not  change 
your  hours  on  my  account. " 

Mr.  Darrell's  brow  slightly  contracted.  Lio- 
nel's tact  was  in  fault  there  ;  but  the  great  man 
answered  quietly,  "All  hours  are  the  same  to 
me ;  and  it  were  strange  if  a  host  could  be  de- 
ranged by  consideration  to  his  guest — on  the 
first  day  too.  Are  you  tired  ?  Would  you  like 
to  go  to  your  room,  or  look  out  for  half  an  hour  ? 
The  sky  is  clearing." 

"  I  should  so  like  to  look  out.  Sir." 
"This  way,  then." 

Mr.  Darrell,  crossing  the  hall,  threw  open  a 
door  opposite  to  that  by  which  Lionel  entered, 
and  the  lake  (we  will  so  call  it)  lay  before  them. 
Separated  from  the  house  only  by  a  shelving, 
gradual  declivity,  on  which  were  a  few  beds  of 
flowers — not  the  most  in  vogue  nowadays — and 
disposed  in  rambling,  old-fashioned  parterres. 
At  one  angle  a  quaint  and  dilapidated  sun-dial ; 
at  the  other  a  long  bowling-alley,  terminated  by 
one  of  those  summer-houses  which  the  Dutch 
taste,  following  the  Revolution  of  1G88,  brought 
into  fashion.  Mr.  Darrell  passed  down  this  alley 
(no  bowls  there  now),  and,  observing  that  Lionel 
looked  curiously  toward  the  summer-house,  of 
^vhich  the  doors  stood  open,  entered  it.  A  lofty 
room,  with  coved  ceiling,  painted  with  Roman 
trophies  of  helms  and  fasces,  alternated  with 
crossed  fifes  and  fiddles,  painted  also. 

"Amsterdam  manners,"  said  Mr.  Darrell, 
slightly  shi-ugging  his  shoulders.  "  Here  a  for- 
mer race  heard  music,  sung  glees,  and  smoked 
from  clay  pipes.  That  age  soon  passed,  unsuit- 
ed  to  English  energies,  which  are  not  to  be  united 
with  Holland  phlegm !  But  the  view  from  the 
window — look  out  there.  I Monder  whether  men 
in  wigs  and  women  in  hoops  enjoyed  that.  It 
is  a  mercy  they  did  not  clip  those  banks  into  a 
straight  canal!" 

The  view  was  indeed  lovely ;  the  water  look- 
ed so  blue,  and  so  large,  and  so  limpid,  woods 
and  curving  banks  reflected  deep  on  its  peace- 
ful bosom. 

"  How  Vance  would  enjoy  this !"  cried  Lio- 
nel. "It  would  come  icto  a  picture  even  better 
than  the  Thames." 


compares  it  to  a  moon — '  xnterignes  minores- 
and  surely  Fame  is  not  among  the  orbs  which 
'■pergunt  interire'  hasten  on  to  perish !" 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  retain  your  recol- 
lection of  Horace,"  said  Mr.  Darrell,  frigidly, 
and  without  continuing  the  allusion  to  celebri- 
ties, "  the  most  charming  of  all  poets  to  a  man 
of  my  years,  and"  (he  very  dryly  added)  "the 
most  useful  for  popular  quotation  to  men  at  any 
age." 

Then  sauntering  forth  carelessly,  he  descend- 
ed the  sloping  turf,  came  to  the  water-side,  and 
threw  himself  at  length  on  the  grass — the  wild 
thyme  which  he  crushed  sent  up  its  bruised  fra- 
grance. There,  resting  his  face  on  his  hand, 
Darrell  gazed  along  the  water  in  abstracted  si- 
lence. Lionel  felt  that  he  was  forgotten ;  but 
he  was  not  hurt.  By  this  time  a  strong  and 
admiring  interest  for  his  cousin  had  sprung  u]i 
within  his  breast — he  would  have  found  it  difli- 
cult  to  explain  why.  But  whosoever  at  that  mo- 
ment could  have  seen  Guy  Darrell's  musing 
countenance,  or  whosoever,  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, could  have  heard  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice — sweetly,  clearly  full — each  slow  enunci- 
ation unaftectedly,  mellowly  distinct — making 
musical  the  homeliest,  roughest  word,  would 
have  understood  and  shared  the  interest  which 
Lionel  could  not  explain.  There  are  living  hu- 
man faces  which,  independently  of  mere  phys- 
ical beauty,  charm  and  enthrall  us  more  than  the 
most  perfect  lineaments  which  Greek  sculptor 
ever  lent  to  a  marble  face  :  there  are  key-notes 
in  the  thrilling  human  voice,  simply  uttered, 
which  can  haunt  the  heart,  rouse  the  passions, 
lull  rampant  multitudes,  shake  into  dust  the 
thrones  of  guarded  kings,  and  effect  more  won- 
ders than  ever  yet  have  been  wrought  by  the 
most  artful  chorus  or  the  deftest  quill. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  swans  from  the  farther 
end  of  the  water  came  sailing  swiftly  toward  the 
bank  on  which  Dafrell  reclined.  He  had  evi- 
dently made  friends  with  them,  and  they  rested 
their  white  breasts  close  on  the  margin,  seeking 
to  claim  his  notice  with  a  low  hissing  salutation, 
which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  they  change  for  some- 
thing less  sibilant  in  that  famous  song  with 
which  they  depart  this  life. 

Darrelllooked  up.  "They  come  to  be  fed," 
said  he,  "smooth  emblems  of  the  great  social 
union.  Affection  is  the  oftspring  of  utility.  1 
am  useful  to  them — they  love  me."  He  rose, 
uncovered,  and  bowed  to  the  birds  in  mock 
courtesy:  "Friends,  I  have  no  bread  to  give 
you." 

Lionel.  "  Let  me  run  in  for  some :  I  would 
be  useful  too." 

Mk.  Dakkell.  "  Rival !  useful  to  my  swans  ?" 
Lionel  (tenderly).  "  Or  to  you,  Sir." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


37 


He  felt  as  if  lie  had  said  too  inucli,  and  with- 
out waitinj;  for  permission,  ran  in-doors  to  find 
some  one  wlicmi  he  could  ask  for  the  bread. 

"Sonless,  childless,  hopeless,  objectless!" 
said  Darrell,  luurnuiringly,  to  himself,  and  sunk 
again  into  reverie. 

°Bv  the  time  Lionel  returned  with  the  bread,  ' 
another  petted  friend  had  joined  the  master.  A 
tame  doe  had  caught  sight  of  him  from  her  cov- 
ert far  away,  came  in  light  bounds  to  his  side, 
and  was  pushing  her  delicate  nostril  into  his 
drooping  hand.  At  the  sound  of  Lionel's  hur- 
ried step  she  took  Hight,  trotted  oft"  a  few  paces, 
then  turned,  looking  wistfully. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  deer  here." 
*'  Deer !  in  this  little  paddock  !  of  course  not ; 
only  that  doe.  Fairthorn  introduced  her  here. 
By-the-by,"  continued  Darrell,  who  was  now 
throwing  the  bread  to  the  swans,  and  had  re- 
sumed his  careless,  unmeditative  manner,  "you 
were  not  aware  that  I  have  a  brother  hermit — 
a  companion  besides  the  swans  and  the  doe. 
Dick  Fail-thorn  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than 
myself,  the  son  of  my  father's  bailiff.  He  was 
the  cleverest  boy  at  his  grammar-school.  Un- 
luckily he  took  to  the  flute,  and  unfitted  himself 
for  the  present  century.  He  condescends,  how- 
ever, to  act  as  my  secretary — a  fair  classical 
scholar — plays  chess — is  useful  to  me — I  am 
useful  to  him.  We  have  an  aft'ection  for  each 
other.  I  never  forgive  any  one  who  laughs  at 
him.  The  half-hour  bell,  and  you  will  meet 
him  at  dinner.  Shall  we  come  in  and  dress  ?" 
They  entered  the  house — the  same  man-serv- 
ant was  in  attendance  in  the  hall.  "  Show  Mr. 
Haughton  to  his  room."  Darrell  inclined  his 
head — I  use  that  phrase,  for  the  gesture  was 
neither  bow  nor  nod — turned  down  a  narrow 
passage,  and  disappeared. 

Led  up  an  uneven  stair-case  of  oak,  black  as 
ebony,  with  huge  balustrades,  and  newel-posts 
supporting  clumsy  balls,  Lionel  was  conducted  to 
a  small  chamber,  modernized  a  century  ago  by  a 
faded  Chinese  paper,  and  a  mahogany  bedstead, 
which  took  uj)  three-fourths  of  the  sjjuce,  and 
was  crested  with  dingy  plumes,  that  gave  it  the 
cheerful  look  of  a  hearse ;  and  there  the  attend- 
ant said,  "  Have  you  the  key  of  your  knapsack. 
Sir?  shall  I  put  out  your  things  to  dress?" 
Dress!  Then  for  the  first  time  the  boy  remem- 
bered that  he  had  brought  with  him  no  evening- 
dress — nay,  evening-dress,  properly  so  called,  he 
))0ssessed  not  at  all  in  any  corner  of  the  world. 
It  had  never  yet  entered  into  his  modes  of  ex- 
istence. Call  to  mind  when  you  were  a  boy  of 
seventeen,  "betwixt  two  ages  hovering  like  a 
star,"  and  imagine  Lionel's  sensations.  He  felt 
his  cheek  burn  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  a 
crime.  "  I  have  no  dress  things,"  he  said,  pit- 
cously;  "only  a  change  of  linen,  and  this," 
glancing  at  the  summer  jacket.  The  servant 
was  evidently  a  most  gentlemanlike  man — his 
native  sphere  that  of  groom  of  the  chambers. 
•'I  will  mention  it  to  Mr.  Darrell;  and  if  you 
will  favor  me  with  your  address  in  London,  I 
will  send  to  telegraph  for  what  you  want  against 
to-morrow." 

"  Many  thanks,"  answered  Lionel,  recovering 
his  presence  of  mind ;  "  I  will  speak  to  ^Ir.  Dar- 
rel  myself." 

"There  is  the  hot  water.  Sir  ;  that  is  the  bell. 
I  have  the  honor  to  be  placed  at  your  com- 


mands." The  door  closed,  and  Lionel  unlocked 
his  knapsack — other  trowsers,  other  waistcoat, 
had  he — those  worn  at  the  fair,  and  once  white. 
Alas  I  they  had  not  since  then  passed  to  the  care 
of  the  laundress.  Other  shoes — double-soled,  for 
walking.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  but  to  ap- 
pear at  dinner  attired  as  he  had  been  before,  in 
his  light  iiedcstrian  jacket,  morning  waistcoat 
flowered  with  sprigs,  and  a  fawn-colored  nether 
man.  Could  it  signify  much — only  two  men  ? 
Could  the  grave  Mr.  Darrell  regard  such  trifles  ? 
Yes,  if  they  intimated  want  of  due  respect. 

Dnnim  !  si'd  fit  levins  Paticntia 
Quicquiil  coi'rigere  est  nel'as. 

On  descending  the  stairs,  the  same  high-bred 
domestic  was  in  waiting  to  show  him  into  the 
library.  Mr.  Darrell  was  there  already,  in  the 
simple  but  punctilious  costume  of  a  gentleman 
who  retains  in  seclusion  the  habits  customary  in 
the  world.  At  the  flrst  glance  Lionel  thought 
he  saw  a  slight  cloud  of  displeasure  on  his  host's 
brow.  He  went  up  to  Mr.  Darrell  ingenuously, 
and  apologized  for  the  deficiencies  of  his  itiner- 
ant wardrobe.  "  Say  the  truth,"  said  his  host; 
"you  thought  you  were  coming  to  an  old  churl, 
with  whom  ceremony  was  misplaced." 

"Indeed,  no!"  exclaimed  Lionel.  "But — 
but  I  have  so  lately  left  school." 

"Your  mother  might  have  thought  for  you." 

"I  did  not  stay  to  consult  her, indeed,  Sir;  I 
hope  you  are  not  offended." 

"  No,  but  let  me  not  oft'end  you  if  I  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  years  and  our  rclationshi])  to  re- 
mark that  a  young  man  should  be  carefid  not  to 
let  himself  down  below  the  measure  of  his  own 
rank.  If  a  king  could  bear  to  hear  that  he  was 
only  a  ceremonial,  a  private  gentleman  may  re- 
member that  there  is  but  a  ceremonial  between 
himself  and — his  hatter !" 

Lionel  felt  the  color  mount  his  brow;  but 
Dan-ell,  pressing  the  distasteful  theme  no  far- 
ther, and  seemingly  forgetting  its  purport,  turned 
his  remarks  carelessly  toward  the  weather.  "It 
will  be  fair  to-morrow ;  there  is  no  mist  on  the 
hill  yonder.  Since  you  have  a  painter  for  a 
friend,  perhaps  you  yourself  are  a  draughtsman. 
There  are  some  landscape-effects  here  which 
Fairthorn  shall  point  out  to  you." 

"I  fear,  I\Ir.  Darrell,"  said  Lionel,  looking 
down,  "  that  to-morrow  I  must  leave  you." 

' '  So  soon  ?  Well,  I  suppose  the  place  must 
be  very  dull." 

"Not  that — not  that;  but  I  have  offended 
you,  and  I  would  not  repeat  the  offense.  I  have 
not  the  '  ceremonial'  necessary  to  mark  me  as  a 
gentleman,  either  here  or  at  home." 

"So!  Bold  frankness  and  ready  wit  com- 
mand ceremonials,"  returned  Darrell,  and  for 
the  first  time  his  lip  wore  a  smile.  "  Let  riic 
jiresent  to  you  Mr.  Fairthorn,"  as  the  door  open- 
ing showed  a  shambling,  awkward  figure,  with 
loose  black  knee-breeches  and  buckled  shoes. 
The  figure  made  a  strange  sidelong  bow,  and 
hurrying  in  a  lateral  course,  like  a  crab  sudden- 
ly alarmed,  toward  a  dim  recess  ])rotccted  by  a 
long  table,  sunk  behind  a  curtain-fold,  and  seem- 
ed to  vanish  as  a  crab  docs  amidst  the  shingles. 

"  Three  minutes  yet  to  dinner,  and  two  before 
the  letter-carrier  goes,"  said  the  host,  glancing 
at  his  watch.  "  Mr.  Fairthorn,  will  you  write  a 
note  for  me  ?"  There  was  a  mutter  from  behind 
the  curtain.     Dan-ell  walked  to  the  place,  and 


? 


38 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


whispered  a  few  words,  returned  to  the  hearth, 
rang  the  bell.  "Another  letter  for  the  post, 
Mills  :  Mr.  Fairthorn  is  sealing  it.  You  are 
looking  at  my  book-shelves,  Lionel.  As  I  un- 
derstand that  j-our  master  spoke  highly  of  you, 
I  presume  that  you  are  fond  of  reading." 

"I  think  so,  but  I  am  not  sure,"  answered 
Lionel,  whom  his  cousin's  conciliatory  words 
had  restored  to  ease  and  good-humor. 

"You  mean,  perhaps,  that  you  like  reading, 
if  you  may  choose  your  own  books." 

'"  Or  rather  if  I  may  choose  my  own  time  to 
read  them,  and  that  would  not  be  on  bright 
summer  days." 

"Without  sacrificing  bright  summer  days,  one 
finds  one  has  made  little  progi-ess  when  the  long 
winter  nights  come." 

"  Yes,  Sir.  But  must  the  sacrifice  be  paid  in 
books  ?  I  fancy  I  learned  as  much  in  the  play- 
ground as  I  did  in  the  school-room,  and  for  the 
last  few  months,  in  much  my  own  master,  read- 
ing hard,  in  the  forenoon,  it  is  true,  for  many 
hours  at  a  stretch,  and  yet  again  for  a  few  hours 
at  evening,  but  rambling  alsothrough  the  streets, 
or  listening  to  a  few  friends  whom  I  have  con- 
trived to  make — I  think,  if  I  can  boast  of  any 
progress  at  all,  the  books  have  the  smaller  share 
in  it." 

"You  would,  then,  prefer  an  active  life  to  a 
studious  one  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes — yes." 

"Dinner  is  served,"  said  the  decorous  Mr. 
Mills,  throwing  open  the  door. 


CHAPTER  m. 


In  our  happy  countrj-  every  man's  house  is  his  castle. 
But'however  stoutly  he  fortify  it,  Care  enters,  as  sure- 
ly as  she  did,  in  Horace's  time,  through  the  porticoes 
of  a  Roman'd  villa.  Nor,  whether  ceilings  be  fretted 
with  gold  and  ivory,  or  whether  only  colored  with 
■whitewash,  does  it  matter  to  Care  any  more  than  it 
does  to  a  house-fly.  But  every  tree,  be  it  cedar  or 
blackthorn,  can  harbor  its  singing-bird ;  and  fev>-  are 
the  homes  in  which,  from  nooks  least  suspected,  there 
Btarts  not  a  music.  Is  it  quite  true  that  "  non  avium 
cithara?que  cantus  somnura  reducent?"  AVould  not 
even  Damocles  himself  have  forgotten  the  sword,  if  the 
lute-player  had  chanced  upon  the  notes  that  lull? 

The  dinner  was  simple  enough,  but  well- 
dressed  and  wcU-sei-ved.  One  footman,  in  plain 
livery,  assisted  Mr.  Mills.  Darrell  ate  sparing- 
ly, and  drank  only  water,  which  was  placed  by 
his  side,  iced,  with  a  single  glass  of  wine  at  the 
close  of  the  repast,  which  he  drank  on  bending 
his  head  to  Lionel  with  a  certain  knightly  grace, 
and  the  j)refatory  words  of  "Welcome  here  to 
a  Haughton."  Mr.  Fairthorn  was  less  abstemi- 
ous— tasted  of  every  dish,  after  examining  it 
long  through  a  ])air  of  tortoise-shell  spectacles, 
and  drank  leisurely  through  a  bottle  of  port, 
holding  up  every  glass  to  the  light.  Dai-rell 
talked  with  his  usual  cold  but  not  uncourteous 
indifference.  A  remark  of  Lionel's  on  the  por- 
traits in  the  room  turned  the  conversation 
chiefly  upon  pictures,  and  the  host  showed  him- 
self thoroughly  accomplished  in  the  attributes 
of  the  various  schools  and  masters.  Lionel, 
who  was  very  fond  of  the  art,  and,  indeed, 
painted  well  for  a  youthful  amateur,  listened 
with  great  delight. 

"Surely,  Sir,"  said  he,  struck  much  with  a 
verj'  subtle  observation  upon  the  causes  why 


the  Italian  masters  admit  of  copyists  with  great- 
er facilitj'  than  the  Flemish — ''surely.  Sir,  you 
must  yourself  have  practiced  the  art  of  paint- 
ing ?" 

"Not  I;  but  I  instructed  myself  as  a  judge 
of  pictures,  because  at  one  time  I  was  a  collect- 
or." 

Fairthorn,  speaking  for  the  first  time :  "  The 
rarest  collection  —  such  Albert  Durers!  such 
Holbeins  !  and  that  head  by  Leonardo  da  Vin- 
ci !"  He  stopped — looked  extremely  frightened 
— helped  himself  to  the  port — turning  his  back 
upon  his  host,  to  hold,  as  usual,  the  glass  to  the 
light. 

"Are  they  here,  Sir?"  asked  Lionel. 

Darrell's  face  darkened,  and  he  made  no  an- 
swer; but  his  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he 
seemed  suddenly  absorbed  in  gloomy  thought. 
Lionel  felt  that  he  had  touched  a  wrong  chord, 
and  glanced  timidly  toward  Fairthorn,  but  that 
gentleman  cautiously  held  up  his  finger,  and 
then  rapidly  put  it  to  his  lip,  and  as  rapidly 
drew  it  away.  After  that  signal  the  boy  did  not 
dare  to  break  the  silence,  which  now  lasted  un- 
interruptedly till  Darrell  rose,  and  with  the  form- 
al and  superfluous  question,  "Any  more  wine?" 
led  the  May  back  to  the  librarj'.  There  he  en- 
sconced himself  in  an  easy  chair,  and  saying, 
"Will  you  find  a  book  for  yourself,  Lionel?" 
took  a  volume  at  random  from  the  nearest  shelf, 
and  soon  seemed  absorbed  in  its  contents.  The 
room,  made  irregular  by  bay-windows,  and 
shelves  that  projected  as  in  public  libraries, 
abounded  with  nook  and  recess.  To  one  of 
tiiese  Fairthorn  sidled  himself,  and  became  in- 
visible. Lionel  looked  round  the  shelves.  No 
be//es  kttres  of  our  immediate  generation  were 
found  there — none  of  those  authors  most  in  re- 
quest at  circulating  libraries  and  literary  insti- 
tutes. The  shelves  could  discover  none  more 
recent  than  the  Johnsonian  age.  Neither  in 
the  lawyer's  library  were  to  be  found  any  law- 
books— no,  nor  the  pamphlets  and  parliament- 
ary volumes  that  should  have  spoken  of  the  once 
eager  politician.  But  there  were  superb  copies 
of  the  ancient  classics.  French  and  Italian  au- 
thors were  not  wanting,  nor  such  of  the  English 
as  have  withstood  the  test  of  time.  The  larger 
portion  of  the  shelves  seemed,  however,  devoted 
to  philosophical  works.  Here  alone  was  novel- 
ty admitted— the  newest  essays  on  science,  or 
the  best  editions  of  old  works  thereon.  Lionel 
at  length  made  his  choice — a  volume  of  the 
"Faerie  Queen."  Coft'ee  was  served  ;  at  a  later 
hour,  tea.  The  clock  struck  ten.  Darrell  laid 
down  his  book. 

"Mr.  Fairthorn — the  Flute!" 

From  the  recess  a  mutter,  and  presently — the 
musician  remaining  still  hidden — there  came 
forth  the  sweetest  note — so  dulcet,  so  plaintive ! 
Lionel's  ear  was  ravished.  The  music  suited 
well  with  the  enchanted  page  through  which  his 
fancy  had  been  wandering  dream-like — the  flute 
with' the  "Faerie  Queen."  As  the  air  flowed 
liquid  on  Lionel's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  did 
not  observe  that  Darrell  was  intently  watching 
him.  When  the  music  stopped  he  turned  aside 
to  wipe  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  Somehow  or 
other,  what  with  the  poem,  what  with  the  flute, 
his  thoughts  had  wandered  far,  far  hence  to  the 
green  banks  and  blue  waves  of  the  Thames — to 
Sophy's  charming  face,  to  her  parting  childish 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


89 


"ift !    And  where  was  she  now?    Whither  pass-    in  his  own  words,"  said  Darrell,  with  a  coldness 
fno- away,  after  so  brief  a  holiday,  into  the  shad-    almost  icy.      He  then  seated  himself  at   the 


ows  of  forlorn  life  ? 

Darrell's  bell-like  voice  smote  his  ear. 

"Spenser!  You  love  him!  Do  you  write 
poetry?" 

"No,  Sir,  I  only  feel  it!" 

"  Do  neither !"  said  the  host,  abruptly,  llien 
turning  away,  he  lighted  his  candle,  nuirmurcd 
a 


breakfast-table ;  Lionel  followed  his  example, 
and  Mr.  Fuirthovn,  courageously  emerging,  also 
took  a  chair  and  a  roll.  "You  were  a  true  di- 
viner, Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Lionel;  "it  is  a  glori- 
ous day." 

"  But  there  will  be  showers  later.     The  fish 
are  at  play  on  the  surface  of  the  lake,"  Darrell 


a  quick  good-night,  and  disajipcared  through  a    added,  with  a  softened  glance  toward  Fairthorn, 
side-door  wliiclAcd  to  his  own  rooms.  who  was  looking  the  picture  of  misery.    "After 

Lionel  looked  round  for  Fairtliorn,  who  now 


emerged  nl>  aixju/o — from  his  nook. 

"Oh,  I\Ir.  Fairthorn,  how  you  have  enchant- 
ed me !  I  never  believed  the  flute  could  have 
been  capable  of  such  effects !" 

Mr.  Fairthorn's  grotesque  face  lighted  up. 
lie  took  oft'  his  spectacles,  as  if  the  better  to 
contemplate  the  face  of  his  eulogist.  "  So  you 
were  pleased!  really?"  he  said,  chuckling  a 
s<;range,  grim  chuckle,  deep  in  his  inmost  self. 

"  Pleased !  it  is  a  cold  word !  Who  would  not 
be  more  than  pleased?" 

"You  should  hear  me  in  the  open  air." 

"Let  me  do  so — to-morrow." 

"  My  dear  young  Sir,  with  all  my  heart. 
Hist!"  gazing  round  as  if  haunted — "1  like  you. 
I  wish  /liiii  to  like  you.  Answer  all  his  tpies- 
tions  as  if  you  did  not  care  how  he  turned  you 
inside  out.  Never  ask  him  a  question,  as  if  you 
sought  to  know  what  he  did  not  himself  confide. 
So  there  is  something,  you  think,  in  a  flute,  after 
all?     There  are  people  who  prefer  the  fiddle." 

"Then  they  never  heard  your  flute,  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn." The  musician  again  emitted  his  dis- 
cordant chuckle,  and,  nodding  his  head  ner- 
vously anil  cordially,  shambled  away  without 
lighting  a  candle,  and  was  ingulfed  in  the  shad- 
ows of  some  mysterious  corner. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Old  World,  and  the  New. 

It  was  long  before  Lionel  could  sleep.  What 
with  the  strange  hoiu^c,  and  the  strange  master 
— what  with  the  magic  flute,  and  the  musician's 
admonitory  caution — wluit  with  tender  and  re- 
gretful reminiscences  of  Sojihy,  his  brain  had 
enough  to  work  on.  When  he  slept  at  last,  his 
slumber  was  deep  and  heavy,  and  he  did  not 
wake  till  gently  shaken  by  the  well-bred  arm  of 
Mr.  Mills.  "  I  humbly  beg  pardon — nine  o'clock. 
Sir,  and  the  breakfast-bell  going  to  ring."  Li- 
onel's toilet  was  soon  hurried  over;  Mr.  Darrell 
and  Fairthorn  were  talking  together  as  he  en- 
tered the  breakfast-room — the  same  room  as  that 
in  whicli  they  had  dined. 

"  Good-morning,  Lionel, "said  the  host.  "No 
leave-taking  to-day,  as  you  threatened.  I  find 
you  have  made  an  ajjpointment  with  Mr.  Fair- 
thorn, and  I  shall  place  you  under  his  care.  You 
may  like  to  look  over  the  old  house,  and  make 
yourself" — Darrell  paused — "At  home," jerked 
"out  Mr.  Fairthorn,  filling  up  the  hiatus.  Dar- 
rell turned  his  eye  toward  tlie  speaker,  who  evi- 
dently became  nmch  frightened,  and,  after  look- 
ing in  vain  for  a  corner,  sidled  away  to  the  win- 
dow, and  poked  himself  behind  the  curtain. 
"Mr.  Fairthorn,  in  the  capacity  of  my  secretary, 
has  learned  to  lind  me  thoughts,  and  put  them 


twelve,  it  will  be  just  tlic  weather  for  trout  to 
rise ;  and  if  you  fish,  Mr.  Fairthorn  will  lend 
you  a  rod.  He  is  a  worthy  successor  of  Izaak 
Walton,  and  loves  a  comjianion  as  Izaak  did,  but 
more  rarely  gets  one." 

"Are  there  trout  in  your  lake.  Sir?" 
"  The  lake !  You  must  not  dream  of  invading 
that  sacred  water.  The  inhabitants  of  rivulets 
and  brooks  not  within  my  boundary  are  beyond 
the  pale  of  Fawley  civilization,  to  be  snared  and 
slaughtered  like  Caftres,  red  men,  or  any  other 
savages,  for  whom  we  bait  witii  a  missionary, 
and  whom  we  impale  on  a  bayonet.  But  I  re- 
gard my  lake  as  a  political  community,  under 
the  protection  of  the  law,  and  leave  its  denizens 
to  devour  each  other,  as  Eurojieans,  fishes  and 
other  cold-blooded  creatures  wisely  do,  in  order 
to  check  the  overgrowth  of  population.  To  fat- 
ten one  pike  it  takes  a  great  many  minnows. 
Naturally  I  sui)port  the  vested  rights  of  pike.  I 
have  been  a  lawyer." 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  describe  the  manner  in 
which  Mr.  Darrell  vented  this  or  similar  re- 
marks of  mocking  irony,  or  sarcastic  spleen. 
It  was  not  bitter  nor  sneering,  but  in  his  usual 
mellifluous  level  tone  and  passionless  tranquil- 
lity. 

The  breakfast  was  just  over  as  a  groom  passed 
in  front  of  the  windows  with  a  led  horse.  "  I 
am  going  to  leave  you,  Lionel,"  said  the  host, 
"to  make — friends  with  Mr.  Fairthorn,  and  I 
thus  complete  tlie  sentence  which  he  diverted 
astray,  according  to  my  own  original  intention." 
He  passed  across  the  hall  to  the  open  house- 
door,  and  stood  by  the  horse  stroking  its  neck 
and  giving  some  directions  to  the  groom.  Lio- 
nel and  Fairthorn  followed  to  the  threshold, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  horse  provoked  the  boy's 
admiration  :  it  was  a  dark  muzzled  brown,  of 
that  fine  old-fashioned  breed  of  English  roadster 
whicli  is  now  so  seldom  seen ;  showy,  bow- 
necked,  long-tailed,  stumbling  reedy  hybrids, 
born  of  bad  barbs,  ill-mated,  having  mainly  sup- 
plied their  place.  This  was,  indeed,  a  horse  of 
great  ])Ower,  immense  girth  of  loin,  high  shoul- 
der, broad  hoof;  and  such  a  head!  the  ear,  the 
frontal,  the  nostril !  you  seldmn  see  a  human 
physiognomy  half  so  intelligent,  half  so  express- 
ive of  that  high  spirit  and  sweet  generous  tem- 
])er,  which,  when  united,  constitute  the  ideal 
of  thorough-breeding,  whether  in  horse  or  man. 
The  English  rider  was  in  harmony  with  the 
English  steed.  Darrell  at  this  moment  was 
resting  his  arm  lightly  on  the  animal's  shoulder, 
and  his  head  still  uncovered.  It  has  been  said 
before  that  he  was  of  ini])osing  presence;  the 
striking  attribute  of  his  person,  indeed,  was 
that  of  unconscious  grandeur  ;  yet,  though  above 
the  ordinary  height,  he  was  not  very  tall — fivo 
feet  eleven  at  the  utmost — and  far  from  being 
very  erect.     On  the  contrary,  there  was  that 


40 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


habitual  bend  in  his  proud  neck  which  men  who 
meditate  much  and  live  alone  almost  invariably 
contract.  But  there  was,  to  use  an  expression 
common  with  our  older  writers,  that  "  great 
air"  about  him  which  filled  the  eye.  and  gave 
him  the  dignity  of  elevated  stature,  the  com- 
manding aspect  that  accompanies  the  upright 
carriage.  His  figure  was  inclined  to  be  slender ; 
though  broad  of  shoulder  and  deep  of  chest ;  it 
was  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  and  probably 
little  changed  from  what  it  might  have  been  at 
five-and-twenty.  A  certain  youthfulness  still 
lingered  even  on  the  countenance — strange,  for 
sorrow  is  supposed  to  expedite  the  work  of  age  ; 
and  Darrell  had  known  sorrow  of  a  kind  most 
adapted  to  harrow  his  peculiar  nature,  as  great 
in  its  degree  as  ever  left  man's  heart  in  ruins. 
Xo  gray  was  visible  in  the  dark  brown  hair,  that, 
worn  short  behind,  still  retained  in  front  the 
large  Jovelike  curl.  Xo  wrinkle,  save  at  the 
corner  of  the  eyes,  marred  the  pale  bronze  of 
the  firm  cheek ;  the  forehead  was  smooth  as 
marble,  and  as  massive.  It  was.  that  forehead 
which  chiefly  contributed  to  the  superb  expres- 
sion of  his  whole  aspect.  It  was  high  to  a  fault ; 
the  perceptive  organs,  over  a  dark,  strongly- 
marked,  arched  eyebrow,  powerfully  developed, 
as  they  are  with  most  eminent  lawyers :  it  did 
not  want  for  breadth  at  the  temples;  yet  on  the 
whole,  it  bespoke  more  of  intellectual  vigor  and 
dauntless  will  than  of  serene  philosophy  or  all- 
embracing  benevolence.  It  was  the  forehead 
of  a  man  formed  to  command  and  awe  the  pas- 
sions and  intellect  of  others  by  the  strength  of 
passions  in  himself,  rather  concentred  than 
chastised,  and  an  intellect  forceful  from  the 
weight  of  its  mass  rather  than  the  niceness  of 
its  balance.  The  other  features  harmonized 
with  that  brow ;  they  were  of  the  noblest  order 
of  aquiline,  at  once  high  and  delicate.  The  lip 
had  a  rare  combination  of  exquisite  refinement 
and  inflexible  resolve.  The  eye,  in  repose,  was 
cold,  bright,  unrevealing,  with  a  certain  absent, 
musing,  self-absorbed  expression,  that  often 
made  the  man's  words  appear  as  if  spoken  me- 
chanically, and  assisted  toward  that  seeming  of 
listless  indiflerence  to  those  whom  he  addressed, 
by  which  he  wounded  vanity,  without,  perhaps, 
any  malice  prepense.  But  it  was  an  eye  in 
which  the  pupil  could  suddenly  expand,  the  hue 
change  from  gray  to  dark,  and  the  cold  still 
brightness  flash  into  vivid  fire.  It  could  not 
have  occurred  to  any  one,  even  to  the  most 
commonplace  woman,  to  have  described  Dar- 
rell's  as  a  handsome  face  ;  the  expression  would 
have  seemed  trivial  and  derogatory  ;  the  words 
that  would  have  occurred  to  all,  would  have 
been  somewhat  to  this  effect — '"What  a  mag- 
nificent countenance !  What  a  noble  head !" 
Yet  an  experienced  physiognomist  might  have 
noted  that  the  same  lineaments  which  bespoke 
a  virtue  bespoke  also  its  neighboring  vice ; 
that  with  so  much  will  there  went  stubborn  ob- 
stinacy ;  that  with  that  power  of  grasp  there 
would  be  the  tenacity  in  adherence  which  nar- 
rows in  astringing  the  intellect ;  that  a  preju- 
dice once  conceived,  a  passion  once  cherished, 
would  resist  all  rational  argument  for  relin- 
quishment. When  men  of  this  mould  do  re- 
linquish prejudice  or  passion,  it  is  by  their  own 
impulse,  their  own  sure  conviction  that  what 
they  hold  is  worthless :  then  they  do  not  yield 


it  graciously;  they  fling  it  from  them  in  scorn, 
but  not  a  scorn  that  consoles.  That  which  they 
thus  ^vrench  away  had  grown  a  living  part  of 
themselves  ;  their  own  flesh  bleeds — the  wound 
seldom  or  never  heals.  Such  men  rarely  fail  in 
the  achievement  of  what  they  covet,  if  the  gods 
are  neutral ;  but  adamant  against  the  world,  they 
are  vulnerable  through  their  affections.  Their 
love  is  intense,  but  undemonstrative  ;  their  ha- 
tred implacable,  but  unrevengeful.  Too  proud 
to  revenge,  too  galled  to  pardon. 

There  stood  Guy  Darrell,  to  whom  the  bar  had 
destined  its  highest  honors,  to  whom  the  Senate 
had  accorded  its  most  rapturous  cheers  ;  and  the 
more  you  gazed  on  him  as  he  there  stood,  the 
more  perplexed  became  the  enigma,  how  with  a 
career  sought  with  such  energy,  advanced  with 
such  success,  the  man  had  abruptly  subsided  into 
a  listless  recluse,  and  the  career  had  been  vol- 
untarily resigned  for  a  home  without  neighbors, 
a  hearth  without  children. 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  said  Lionel,  as  Darrell  rode 
slowly  awaj',  soon  lost  from  sight  amidst  the 
thick  foliage  of  summer  trees — '"I  had  no  idea 
that  my  cousin  was  so  young  1" 

"  Oh,  yes  I"  said  Mr.  Fairthorn  ;  '"he  is  only 
a  year  older  than  I  am  I" 

"  Older  than  you !"  exclaimed  Lionel,  staring 
in  blunt  amaze  at  the  elderly-looking  pereonage 
beside  him  ;  "  yet  true — he  "told  me  so  himself." 
"And  I  am  fifty-one  last  birthday." 
"  ^Ir.  DaiTcll  fifty-two !     Incredible  !" 
"  I  don't  know  why  we  should  ever  grow  old, 
the  life  we  lead,''  observed  Mr.  Fairthorn,  re- 
adjusting his  spectacles.    '•  Time  stands  so  still ! 
Fishing,  too,  is  very  conducive  to  longevity.  If 
you  will  follow  me  we  will  get  the  rods ;  and 
the  flute — you  are  quite  sure  you  would  like  the 
flute  ?     Yes  I    thank  you,  my  dear  young  Sir. 
And  yet  there  are  folks  who  prefer  the  fiddle  I" 
"Is  not  the  sun  a  little  too  bright  for  the  fly 
at  present  ?  and  will  you  not,  in  the  mean  while, 
show  me  over  the  house?" 

"Very  well;  not  that  this  house  has  much 
worth  seeing.  The  other,  indeed,  would  have 
had  a  music-room  I  But,  after  all,  nothing  like 
the  open  air  for  the  flute.     This  way." 

I  spare  thee,  gentle  reader,  the  minute  inven- 
tory of  Fawley  Manor  House.  It  had  nothing 
but  its  antiquity  to  recommend  it.  It  had  a  great 
many  rooms,  all,  except  those  used  as  the  din- 
ing-room and  library,  very  small  and  very  low — 
innumerable  closets,  nooks — unexpected  cavi- 
ties, as  if  made  on  purpose  for  the  venerable 
game  of  hide-and-seek.  Save  a  stately  old 
kitchen,  the  offices  were  sadly  defective,  even 
for  Mr.  Dan-ell's  domestic  establishment,  which 
consisted  but  of  two  men  and  four  maids  (the 
stablemen  not  lodging  in  the  house).  Draw- 
ing-room, properly  speaking,  it  had  none.  At 
some  remote  period  a  sort  of  gallery  under  the 
gable  roofs  (above  the  first  floor),  stretching 
from  end  to  end  of  the  house,  might  have  served 
for  the  reception  of  guests  on  grand  occasions. 
For  fragments  of  mouldering  tapestry  still,  here 
and  there,  clung  to  the  walls  ;  and  a  high  chim- 
ney-piece, whereon,  in  plaster  relief,  was  com- 
memorated the  memorable  fishing-party  of  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra,  retained  patches  of  color 
and  gilding,  which  must,  when  fresh,  have  made 
the  Egv'ptian  queen  still  more  appallingly  hide- 
ous, and  the  fish  at  the  end  of  Antony's  hook 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


41 


still  less  resembling  any  creature  known  to  ich- 
thyologists. 

The"  library  had  been  arranged  into  shelves 
from  floor  to  roof  by  Mr.  Darrell's  father,  and 
subsequently,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  holding 
as  many  volumes  as  possible,  brought  out  into 
projecting  wings  (college-like)  by  DaiTell  him- 
self, without  any  pretension  to  mediaeval  char- 
acter. With  this  room  communicated  a  small 
reading-closet,  which  the  host  resened  to  him- 
self ;  and  this,  by  a  circular  stair  cut  into  the 
massive  wall,  ascended  first  into  Mr.  Darrell's 
sleeping-chamber,  and  thence  into  a  gable  re- 
cess that  adjoined  the  gallery,  and  which  the 
host  had  fitted  up  for  the  purpose  of  scientific 
experiments  in  chemistry,  or  other  branches  of 
practical  philosophy.  These  more  private  rooms 
Lionel  was  not  permitted  to  enter. 

Altogether  the  house  was  one  of  those  cruel 
tenements  which  it  would  be  a  sin  to  pull  down 
or  even  materially  to  alter,  but  which  it  would 
be  an  hourly  inconvenience  for  a  modern  fam- 
ily to  inhabit.  It  was  out  of  all  character  with 
Mr.  DaiTcU's  former  position  in  life,  or  with  the 
fortune  which  Lionel  vaguely  sup])Osed  him  to 
possess,  and  considerably  underrated.  Like  Sir 
Nicholas  Bacon,  the  man  had  grown  too  large 
for  his  habitation. 

''  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Lionel,  as,  their  wan- 
derings over,  he  and  Fairthorn  found  themselves 
in  the  library,  '•  that  INIr.  Darrell  began  to  build 
a  new  house.  But  it  would  have  been  a  great 
piry  to  pull  down  this  for  it." 

"  Pull  down  this !  Don't  hint  at  such  an  idea 
to  Mr.  Darrell.  He  would  as  soon  have  pulled 
down  the  British  monarchy!  Kay,  I  suspect, 
sooner." 

"  But  the  new  building  must  surely  have  swal- 
lowed up  the  old  one." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  Mr.  Darrell  had  a  ]>]an  by  which  he 
would  have  inclosed  this  separately  in  a  kind  of 
court  with  an  open  screen  work  or  cloister ;  and 
it  was  his  intention  to  appropriate  it  entirely  to 
mediasval  antiquities,  of  which  he  had  a  wonder- 
ful collection.  He  had  a  notion  of  illustrating 
every  earlier  reign  In  which  his  ancestors  flour- 
ished— difterent  apartments  in  correspondence 
with  different  dates.  It  would  have  been  a  chron- 
icle of  national  manners." 

"  But,  if  it  be  not  an  impertinent  question, 
v.'here  is  this  collection  ?     In  London  ?" 

"  Hush !  hush !  I  will  give  you  a  peep  of  some 
of  the  treasures,  only  don't  betray  me." 

Fairthorn  here,  with  singular  rapidity,  consid- 
ering that  he  never  moved  in  a  straightforward 
direction,  undulated  into  the  open  air  in  front 
of  the  house,  described  a  rhomboid  toward  a 
side-buttress  in  the  new  building,  near  to  which 
was  a  postern  door  ;  unlocked  that  door  from  a 
key  in  his  pocket,  and,  motioning  Lionel  to  fol- 
low him,  entered  within  the  ribs  of  the  stony 
skeleton.  Lionel  followed  in  a  sort  of  super- 
natural awe,  and  beheld,  Avith  more  substantial 
alarm,  Mr.  Fairthorn  winding  up  an  inclined 
plank  which  he  embraced  with  both  arms,  and 
by  M-hich  he  ultimately  ascended  to  a  timber 
joist  in  what  should  have  been  an  upper  floor, 
only  flooring  there  was  none.  Perched  there, 
Fairthorn  glared  down  on  Lionel  through  his 
spectacles.  "Dangerous,"  he  said,  whispering- 
ly;  "  but  one  gets  used  to  every  thing  !  If  you 
feel  afraid,  don't  venture  !" 


Lionel,  animated  by  that  doubt  of  his  cour- 
age, sprang  up  the  plank,  balancing  himself, 
school-boy  fashion,  with  outstretched  ai-ms,  and 
gained  the  side  of  his  guide. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairthorn, 
shrinking,  "  or  we  shall  both  be  over.  Now  ob- 
serve and  imitate."  Dropping  himself  then  care- 
fully and  gradually,  till  he  dropped  on  the  tim- 
ber joist  as  if  it  were  a  velocipede,  his  long  legs 
dangling  down,  he  with  thigh  and  hand  impelled 
himself  onward  till  he  gained  the  ridge  of  a  wall, 
on  which  he  delivered  his  person,  and  wijjed  his 
spectacles. 

Lionel  was  not  long  before  he  stood  in  the 
same  place.     "Here  we  are  1'  said  Fairthorn. 

"  I  don't  see  the  collection,"  answered  Lionel, 
first  peering  down  athwart  the  joists  upon  the 
rugged  ground  overspread  with  stones  and  rub- 
bish, then  glancing  up,  thi-ough  similar  intei-- 
stices  above,  to  the  gaunt  rafters. 

"  Here  are  some — most  precious,"  answered 
Fairthorn,  tapping  behind  him.  "Walled  up, 
except  where  these  boards,  cased  in  iron,  are 
nailed  across,  with  a  little  door  just  big  enough 
to  creep  through ;  but  that  is  locked — Chubb's 
lock,  and  I\Ir.  Darrell  keeps  the  key  I — treasures 
for  a  palace  !  No,  you  can't  peep  through  here 
— not  a  chink  ;  but  come  on  a  little  further, — 
mind  your  footing." 

Skirting  the  wall,  and  still  on  the  perilous 
ridge,  Fairthorn  crept  on,  formed  an  angle,  and, 
stopping  short,  claj)ped  his  eye  to  the  crevice  of 
some  planks  nailed  rudely  across  a yav.ning  ap- 
erture. Lionel  found  another  crevice  for  him- 
self, and  saw,  piled  up  in  adniired  disorder,  pic- 
tures, with  their  backs  turned  to  a  desolate  wall, 
rare  cabinets,  and  articles  of  curious  furniture, 
chests,  boxes,  crates — heaped  pell-mell.  This 
receptacle  had  been  roughly  floored  in  deal,  in 
order  to  support  its  miscellaneous  contents,  and 
was  lighted  from  a  large  window  (not  visible  in 
front  of  the  l^ousc),  glazed  in  dull  rough  glass, 
with  ventilators. 

"These  are  the  hea^y  things,  and  least  cost- 
ly things,  that  no  one  could  well  rob.  Tiie  pic- 
tures here  are  merely  curious  as  early  speci- 
mens, intended  for  the  old  house,  all  spoiling 
and  rotting ;  Jlr.  DaiTell  wishes  them  to  do  so, 
I  believe!  What  he  wishes  must  be  done!  my 
dear  young  Sir — a  prodigious  mind^ — it  is  of 
gi'anite." 

"I  can  not  understand  it,"  said  Lionel,  aghast. 
"  The  last  man  I  should  have  thought  capricious- 
ly whimsical." 

"  Whimsical !  Bless  my  soul !  don't  say  such 
a  word — don't,  pray,  or  the  roof  will  fall  dovra 
u])On  us  !  Come  away.  You  have  seen  all  you 
can  see.  You  must  go  first  now — mind  that 
loose  stone  thei'e !" 

Nothing  further  was  said  till  they  were  out  of 
the  building;  and  Lionel  felt  like  a  knight  of 
old  who  had  been  led  into  sepulchral  halls  by  a 
wizard. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  annals  of  empire  are  briefly  chronicled  iu  family 
records  brought  down  to  the  present  day,  showing  that 
the  race  of  men  is  indeed  "like  leaves  on  trees,  now 
green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground."  Yet 
to  the  branch  the  most  b.<ire  will  green  leaves  return, 
60  long  as  the  sap  can  remount  to  the  branch  from  the 
root ;  but  t!ie  branch  whicli  l-.as  ceased  to  take  life  from 


42 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


the  root— bang  it  liigh,  hang  it  low — is  a  prey  to  the 
wind  and  the  woodnuin. 

It  was  mid-day.  The  boy  and  his  new  friend 
were  standing  apart,  as  becomes  silent  anglers, 
on  the  banks  of  a  narrow  brawling  rivulet,  run- 
ning tlnough  green  pastures,  half  a  mile  from 
the  house.  The  sky  was  overcast,  as  Darrell  had 
predicted,  but  the  rain  did  not  yet  fall.  The 
two  anglers  were  not  long  before  they  had  filled 
a  basket  with  small  trout. 

Then  Lionel,  who  was  by  no  means  fond  of 
fishing,  laid  his  rod  on  the  bank,  and  strolled 
across  the  long  grass  to  his  companion. 

"It  will  rain  soon,"  said  he.  "Let  me  take 
advantage  of  the  present  time,  and  hear  the  flute, 
while  we  can  yet  enjoy  the  open  air.  No,  not 
by  the  margin,  or  you  will  be  always  looking 
after  the  trout.  On  the  rising-ground,  see  that 
old  thorn-tree — let  us  go  and  sit  under  it.  The 
new  building  looks  well  from  it.  What  a  pile  it 
would  have  been !  I  may  not  ask  you,  I  sup- 
j)0se,  why  it  is  left  incompleted.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  cost  too  much,  or  would  have  been 
disproportionate  to  the  estate." 

"To  the  present  estate  it  would  have  been 
disproportioned,  but  not  to  the  estate  Mr.  Dar- 
rell intended  to  add  to  it.  As  to  cost,  you  don't 
know  him.  He  would  never  have  undertaken 
what  he  could  not  afi:brd  to  complete ;  and  what 
he  once  undertook,  no  thoughts  of  the  cost 
would  have  scared  him  from  finishing.  Prodig- 
ious mind — granite !  And  so  rich !"  added  Fair- 
thorn,  with  an  air  of  great  pride.-  "I  ought  to 
know ;  I  write  all  his  letters  on  money  matters. 
How  much  do  you  think  he  has,  without  count- 
ing land  ?" 

"  I  can  not  guess." 

"Nearly  half  a  million — in  two  years  it  will 
be  more  than  half  a  million.  And  he  had  not 
three  hundred  a  year  when  he  began  life;  for 
Fawley  was  sadly  mortgaged." 

"  Is  it  possible !  Could  any  la\\<yer  make  half 
a  million  at  the  bar  ?" 

"  If  any  man  could,  he  would,  if  he  set  his 
mind  on  it.  But  it  was  not  all  made  at  the  bar, 
though  a  great  part  Qf  it  was.  An  East  Indian 
old  bachelor  of  the  same  name,  but  who  had 
never  been  heard  of  hereabouts  till  he  wrote 
from  Calcutta  to  Mr.  Darrell  (inquiring  if  they 
were  any  relations — and  Mr.  Darrell  referred 
him  to  the  College-at-Arms,  which  proved  that 
they  came  from  the  same  stock  ages  ago) — left 
him  all  his  money.  Mr.  Dairell  was  not  de- 
pendent on  his  profession  when  he  stood  up  in 
Parliament.  And  since  we  have  been  here,  such 
savings!  Not  that  Mr.  Darrell  is  avaricious, 
but  how  can  he  spend  money  in  this  place  ? 
You  should  have  seen  the  servants  we  kept  in 
Carlton  Gardens.  Such  a  cook  too — a  French 
gentleman — looked  like  a  marquis.  Those  were 
happy  days,  and  proud  ones !  It  is  true  that  I 
order  the  dinner  here,  but  it  can't  be  the  same 
thing.  Do  you  like  fillet  of  veal  ?  we  have  one 
to-day." 

"  We  used  to  have  a  fillet  of  veal  at  school  on 
Sundays.     I  thought  it  good  then." 

"It  makes  a  nice  mince,"  said  Mr. Fairthorn, 
v.ith  a  sensual  movement  of  his  lips.  "One 
must  think  of  dinner  when  one  lives  in  the  coun- 
tiy — so  little  else  to  think  of!  Not  that  Mr. 
Darrell  does,  but  then  lie  is — granite !" 

"Still,"  said  Lionel,  smiling,  "I  do  not  get 


my  answer.  Why  was  the  house  uncomi)leted  ? 
and  why  did  Mr.  Darrell  retire  from  public 
life?" 

"He  took  both  into  his  head;  and  when  a 
thing  once  gets  there,  it  is  no  use  asking  why. 
But,"  added  Fairthorn,  and  his  innocent  ugly 
face  changed  into  an  expression  of  earnest  sad- 
ness— "but  no  doubt  he  had  his  reasons.  He 
has  reasons  for  all  he  does,  only  they  lie  far  far 
away  from  what  appears  on  the  surface — far  as 
that  rivulet  lies  from  its  source !  My  dear  young 
Sir,  Mr.  Darrell  has  known  griefs  "on  which  it 
does  not  become  you  and  me  to  talk.  He  never 
talks  of  them.  The  least  I  can  do  for  my  bene- 
factor is  not  to  pry  into  his  secrets,  nor  babble 
them  out.  And  he  is  so  kind — so  good — never 
gets  into  a  passion ;  but  it  is  so  awful  to  wound 
him — it  gives  him  such  pain ;  that's  why  he 
frightens  me — frightens  me  horribly  ;  and  so  he 
will  you  M'hen  you  come  to  know  him.  Prodig- 
ious mind ! — granite — overgrown  with  sensitive 
])lants.  Yes,  a  little  music  will  do  us  both 
good." 

Mx.  Fairthorn  screwed  his  flute — an  exceed- 
ingly handsome  one.  He  pointed  out  its  beau- 
ties to  Lionel — a  present  from  Mr.  Darrell  last 
Christmas — and  then  he  began.  Strange  thing, 
Art!  especially  music.  Out  of  an  art  a  man 
may  be  so  trivial  you  would  mistake  him  for  an 
imbecile — at  best,  a  grown  infant.  Put  him  into 
his  art,  and  how  high  he  soars  above  you !  How 
quietly  he  enters  into  a  heaven  of  wliich  he  has 
become  a  denizen,  and,  unlocking  the  gates  with 
his  golden  key,  admits  you  to  follow,  an  humble, 
reverent  visitor. 

In  his  art  Fairthorn  was  certainly  a  master, 
and  the  air  he  now  played  was  exquisitely  soft 
and  plaintive  ;  it  accorded  with  the  clouded  yet 
quiet  sky,  with  the  lone  but  summer  landscape, 
with  Lionel's  melancholic  but  not  afflicted  train 
of  thought.  The  boy  could  only  murmur,  "Beau- 
tiful !"  when  the  musician  ceased. 

"It  is  an  old  air,"  said  Fairthorn  ;  "I  don't 
think  it  is  known.  I  found  its  scale  scrawled 
down  in  a  copy  of  the  Eikon  Basilike,  with  the 
name  oi  Joannes  Dan-ell,  Kq.  Aurat,  written  un- 
der it.  That,  by  the  date,  was  Sir  John  Dar- 
rell, the  cavalier  who  fought  for  Charles  I.,  fa- 
ther of  the  graceless  Sir  llalph,  who  flourished 
under  Charles  II.  Both  their  portraits  are  in 
the  dining-room. 

"Tell  me  something  of  the  family;  I  know 
so  little  about  it — not  even  how  the  Haughtons 
and  Darrells  seem  to  have  been  so  long  con- 
nected. I  see  by  the  portraits  that  the  Ilaugh- 
ton  name  was  borne  by  former  Darrells,  then 
apparently  dropped,  now  it  is  borne  again  by 
my  cousin." 

"  He  beai-s  it  only  as  a  Cliristian  name.    Your 
grandfather  was  his  sponsor.     But  he  is,  never- 
theless, the  head  of  your  family." 
"So  he  says.     How ?" 

Fairthorn  gathered  himself  up,  his  knees  to 
his  chin,  and  began  in  the  tone  of  a  guide  who 
has  got  his  lesson  by  heart,  though  it  was  not 
long  before  he  warmed  into  his  subject. 

"  The  Darrells  are  supposed  to  Jiave  got  their 
name  from  a  knight  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III., 
who  held  the  lists  in  a  joust  victoriously  against 
all  comers,  and  was  called,  or  called  himself, 
John  the  Dare-all ;  or,  in  old  spelling,  the  Dei'- 
all !     They  were  among  the  most  powerful  £am- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


43 


ilies  in  the  country ;  their  alliances  were  with 
the  highest  houses — Montfichets,  Nevilles,  Mow- 
brays  ;    they  descend   through   such   marriages 
from  the  blood  of  Plantagenct  kings.     You'll 
find  their   names   in  Chronicles   in   the   early 
French  wai-s.     Unluckily,  they  attached  them- 
selves  to   the  fortunes   of  Earl  Warwick,  the 
King-maker,  to  whose  blood  they  were  allied; 
their  representative  was  killed  in  the  fatal  field 
of  Barnet ;  their  estates  were,  of  course,  confis- 
cated; the  sole  son  and  heir  of  that  ill-fated 
politician  passed  into  the  Low  Countries,  where 
he  served  as  a  soldier.     His  son  and  grandson 
followed  the  same  calling  under  foreign  banners. 
But  they  must  have  kept  up  the  love  of  the  old 
land ;  for,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Hen- 
ry  VIII.,  the  last  male  Darrell  returned  to  En- 
gland with  some  broad  gold  pieces,  saved  by 
himself  or  his  exiled  fathers,  bought  some  land 
in  this  county,  in  which  the  ancestral  possessions 
had  once  been  large,  and  built  the  present  house, 
of  a  size  suited  to  the  altered  fortunes  of  a  race 
that  had,  in  a  former  age,  manned  castles  with 
retainers.     The  baptismal  name  of  the  soldier 
who  thus  partially  refounded  the  old  line  in  En- 
gland was  that  now  borne  by  your  cousin  Guy 
— a  name  always  favored  by  Fortune  in  the 
family  annals ;   for,  in  Elizabeth's  time,  from 
the  rank  of  small  gentry,  to  which  their  fortune 
alone  lifted  them  since  their  return  to  their  na- 
tive land,  the  Darrells  rose  once  more  into  wealth 
and  eminence  under  a  handsome  young  Sir  Guy 
— we  have  his  picture  in  black  Howered  velvet — 
who  married  the  heiress  of  the  Haughtons,  a 
family  that  had  grown  rich  under  the  Tudors, 
and  in  high  favor  with  the  ]Maiden-Queen.    This 
Sir  Guy  was  befriended  by  Essex,  and  knighted 
by  Elizabeth  herself.     Their  old  house  was  then 
abandoned  for  the  larger  mansion  of  the  Haugh- 
tons, which  had  also  the  advantage  of  being 
nearer  to  the  Court.     The  renewed  prosperity 
of  the  Darrells  was  of  short  duration.     The 
Civil  Wars  came  on,  and  Sir  John  Darrell  took 
the  losing  side.     He  escaped  to  France  with  his 
only  son.     He  is  said  to  have  been  an  accom- 
plished, melancholy  man  ;  and  my  belief  is,  that 
he  composed  that  air  which  you  justly  admire 
for  its  mournful  sweetness.     He  turned  Komau 
Catholic,  and  died  in  a  convent.     But  the  son, 
Ralph,  was  brought  up  in  France  with  Charles 
II.  and  other  gay  roisterers.     On  the  return  of 
the  Stuart,  Ralph  ran  oft"  with  the  daughter  of 
the  Roundhead  to  whom  his  estates  had  been 
given,   and,   after  getting  them  back,  left  his 
wife  in  the   country,  and  made  love  to  other 
men's  wives  in  town.     Shocking  profligate  !  no 
fruit   could  thrive  upon   such   a   branch.     He 
squandered  all  he  could  squander,  and  would 
have  left  his  children  beggars,  but  that  he  was 
providentially  slain  in  a  tavern  brawl  for  boast- 
ing of  a  lady's  favors  to  her  husband's  face.    The 
husband  suddenly  stabbed  him — no  fair  duello, 
for  Sir  Raljjh  was  invincible  with  the    small 
sword.     Still  the  family  fortune  was  much  di- 
lapidated, yet  still  the  Darrells  lived  in  the  fine 
house  of  the  Haughtons,  and  left  Fawley  to  the 
owls.     But  Sir  Ralph's  son,  in  his  old  age,  mar- 
ried a  second  time,  a  young  lady  of  high  rank, 
an  earl's  daughter.     He  must  have  been  very 
much  in  love  with  her,  despite  his  age ;  for,  to 
win  her  consent  or  her  father's,  he  agreed  to 
settle  all  the  Ilaughton  estates  on  her  and  the 


children  she  might  bear  to  him.  The  smaller 
Darrell  property  had  already  been  entailed  on 
his  son  by  his  first  mamage.  This  is  how  the 
family  came  to  split.  Old  Darrell  had  children 
by  his  second  wife  ;  the  eldest  of  those  children 
took  the  Ilaughton  name,  and  inherited  the 
Ilaughton  property.  The  son  by  the  first  mar- 
riage had  nothing  but  Fawley,  and  the  scanty 
domain  round  it.  You  descend  from  the  second 
marriage,  Mr.  Darrell  from  the  first.  You  un- 
derstand now,  my  dear  young  Sir?" 

"  Yes,  a  little  ;  but  I  should  like  very  much  to 
know  where  those  fine  Ilaughton  estates  are 
now  ?" 

"  W^here  they  are  now  ?  I  can't  say.  They 
were  once  in  Middlesex.  Probably  much  of  the 
land,  as  it  was  sold  piecemeal,  fell  into  small  al- 
lotments, constantly  changing  hands.  But  the 
last  relics  of  the  property  were,  I  know,  bought 
on  speculation  by  Cox  the  distiller ;  for,  when 
we  were  in  London,  by  Mr.  Darrell's  desire  I 
went  to  look  after  them,  and  inquire  if  tliey 
could  be  repurchased.  And  I  found  that  so 
rapid  in  a  few  years  has  been  the  prosperity  of 
this  great  commercial  country,  that  if  one  did 
buy  them  back,  one  would  buy  twelve  villas, 
several  streets,  two  squares,  and  a  paragon! 
But  as  that  symptom  of  national  advancement, 
though  a  proud  thought  in  itself,  may  not  have 
any  pleasing  interest  for  you,  I  return  to  the 
Darrells.  From  the  time  in  which  the  Ilaughton 
estate  had  parted  from  them,  they  settled  back  > 
in  their  old  house  of  Fawley.  But  tb.ey  could 
never  again  hold  up  their  heads  with  the  noble- 
men and  great  squires  in  the  county.  As  much 
as  they  could  do  to  live  at  all  upon  the  little 
patrimony  ;  still  the  reminiscence  of  what  they 
had  been  made  them  maintain  it  jealously,  and 
entail  it  rigidly.  The  eldest  son  would  never 
have  thought  of  any  profession  or  business ;  the 
younger  sons  generall}'-  became  soldiers,  and 
"being  always  a  venturesome  race,  and  having 
nothing  particular  to  make  them  value  their  ex- 
istence, were  no  less  generally  killed  oft' betimes. 
Tiie  family  became  thoroughly  obscure,  slipped 
out  of  place  in  the  county,  seldom  rose  to  be 
even  justices  of  the  peace,  never  contrived  to 
marry  heiresses  again,  but  only  the  daughters 
of  some  neighboring  parson  or  squire  as  poor 
as  themselves,  but  always  of  gentle  blood.  Oh, 
they  were  as  proud  as  Spaniards  in  that  respect. 
So  from  father  to  son,  each  generation  grew 
obscurer  and  poorer ;  for,  entail  the  estate  as 
they  might,  still  some  settlements  on  it  were 
necessary,  and  no  settlements  were  ever  brought 
into  it;  and  thus  entails  were  cut  oft'  to  admit 
some  new  mortgage,  till  the  rent-roll  was  some- 
what less  than  £300  a  year  when  Mr.  Darrell's 
father  came  into  possession.  Yet  somehow  or 
other  he  got  to  college,  where  no  Darrell  had 
been  since  the  time  of  the  Glorious  Revolution, 
and  was  a  learned  man  and  an  antiquary — a 
GREAT  antiquary!  You  may  have  read  his 
works.  I  know  there  is  one  copy  of  them  in 
the  British  Museum,  and  there  is  anotlier  here, 
but  that  copy  Mr.  Darrell  keeps  under  lock  and 
kev." 

'"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  don't  even  know  the 
titles  of  those  works." 

"There  were  'Popular  Ballads  on  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses  ;'  '  Darrelliana,'  consisting  of  tra- 
ditional and  other  memorials  of  the  Darrell 


44 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


family ;  '  Inquiiy  into  the  Origin  of  Legends 
connected  with  Dragons  ;'  '  Hours  among  Mon- 
umental Brasses,'  and  other  ingenious  lucubra- 
tions above  tiie  taste  of  the  vulgar ;  some  of 
them  -were  even  read  at  the  Royal  Society  of 
Antiquaries.  They  cost  much  to  print  and  pub- 
lish. But  I  have  heard  my  father,  who  was  his 
bailiff,  say  that  he  was  a  pleasant  man,  and  was 
fond  of  reciting  old  scraps  of  poetry,  which  he 
did  with  great  energy  ;  indeed,  Mr.  Darrell  de- 
clares that  it  was  the  noticing,  in  his  father's 
animated  and  felicitous  elocution,  the  effects 
that  voice,  look,  and  deliverj'  can  give  to  words, 
which  made  Mr.  Darrell  himself  the  fine  speak- 
er that  he  is.  But  I  can  only  recollect  the  An- 
tiquary as  a  very  majestic  gentleman,  with  a 
long  pigtail — awful,  rather,  not  so  much  so  as 
his  son,  but  still  awful — and  so  sad-looking ; 
you  would  not  have  recovered  your  spirits  for  a 
week  if  you  had  seen  him,  especially  when  the 
old  house  wanted  repairs,  and  he  was  thinking 
how  he  could  pay  for  them  !" 

"  Was  ilr.  Darrell,  the  present  one,  an  onlv 
child  ?" 

"Yes,  and  much  with  his  father,  whom  he 
loved  most  dearly,  and  to  this  day  he  sighs  if  he 
has  to  mention  his  father's  name !  He  has  old 
Mr.  DarreU's  portrait  over  the  chimney-piece 
in  his  own  reading-room  ;  and  he  had  it  in  his 
own  library  in  Carlton  Gardens.  Our  Mr.  Dar- 
reU's mother  was  veiy  pretty,  even  as  I  remember 
her  ;  she  died  when  he  was  about  ten  years  old. 
And  she  too  was  a  relation  of  yours — a  Haugh- 
ton  by  blood  ;  but  perhaps  you  will  be  ashamed 
of  her, "when  I  say  she  was  a  governess  in  a  rich 
mercantile  family.  She  had  been  left  an  or- 
phan. I  believe  old  Mr.  Dan-ell  (not  that  he 
was  old  then)  married  her  because  the  Haugh- 
tons  could  or  would  do  nothing  for  her,  and  be- 
cause she  was  much  snubbed  and  put  upon,  as 
I  am  told  governesses  usually  are — married  her 
because,  poor  as  he  was,  he  was  still  the  head 
of  both  families,  and  bound  to  do  what  he  could 
for  decayed  scions  !  The  first  governess  a  Dar- 
rell ever  married,  but  no  true  Darrell  would 
have  called  that  a  mesalliance,  since  she  was  still 
a  Haughton,  and  'Fors  non  mutat  genus,' 
Chance  does  not  change  race." 

"  But  how  comes  it  that  the  Ilaughtons — my 
grandfather  Haughton,  I  suppose,  would  do  no- 
thing for  his  own  kinswoman?" 

"It  was  not  your  grandfather,  Robert  Haugh- 
ton, who  was  a  generous  man — he  was  then  a 
mere  youngster,  hiding  himself  for  debt — but 
your  great-grandfather,  who  was  a  hard  man, 
and  on  the  turf.  He  never  had  money  to  give 
— only  money  for  betting.  He  left  the  Haugh- 
ton estates  sadly  dipped.  But  when  Robert  suc- 
ceeded, he  came  forward,  was  godfather  to  our 
Mr.  Darrell,  insisted  on  sharing  the  expense  of 
sending  him  to  Eton,  where  he  became  greatly 
distinguished;  thence  to  Oxford,  where  he  in- 
creased his  reputation ;  and  would  probably 
have  done  more  for  him,  only  Mr.  Darrell,  once 
his  foot  on  the  ladder,  wanted  no  help  to  climb 
to  the  top." 

"Then  my  grandfather,  Robert,  still  had  the 
Haughton  estates?  Their  last  relics  had  not 
been  yet  transmuted  by  Mr.  Cox  into  squares 
and  a  paragon  ?" 

"  No ;  the  grand  old  mansion,  though  much 
dilapidated,  with  its  park,  though  stripped  of 


salable  timber,  was  still  left,  with  a  rental  from 
farms  that  still  appertained  to  the  residence, 
which  would  have  sufficed  a  prudent  man  for  the 
luxuries  of  life,  and  allowed  a  reserve  fund  to 
clear  off  the  mortgages  gradually.  Abstinence 
and  self-denial  for  one  or  two  generations  would 
have  made  a  property,  daily  rising  in  value  as 
the  metropolis  advanced  to  its  outskirts,  a  prince- 
ly estate  for  a  third.  But  Robert  Haughton, 
though  not  on  the  turf,  had  a  grand  way  of  liv- 
ing ;  and  while  Guy  Darrell  went  into  the  law 
to  make  a  small  patrimony  a  large  fortune,  your 
father,  my  dear  young  Sir,  was  put  into  the 
Guards  to  reduce  a  large  patrimony — into  Mr. 
Cox's  distillery." 

Lionel  colored,  but  remained  silent. 
Fairthorn,  who  was  as  unconscioiis,  in  his  zest 
of  narrator,  that  he  was  giving  pain  as  an  ento- 
mologist, in  his  zest  for  collecting,  when  he  pins 
a  live  moth  into  his  cabinet,  resumed:  ''Your 
father  and  Guy  Darrell  were  warm  friends  as 
boys  and  youths.  Guy  was  the  elder  of  the  two, 
and  Charlie  Haughton  (I  beg  your  pardon,  hc 
was  always  called  Charlie)  looked  up  to  him  as 
to  an  elder  brother.  ]\Iany's  the  scrape  Guy  got 
him  out  of;  and  many  a  pound,  I  believe,  when 
Guy  had  some  funds  of  his  own,  did  Guy  lend 
to  Charlie." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Lionel, 
sharply. 

Fairthorn  looked  frightened.     "I'm  afraid  I 

have  made  a  blunder.     Don't  tell  Mr.  Dan-ell." 

"  Certainly  not ;  I  promise.     But  how  came 

my  father  to  need  this  aid,  and  how  came  they 

at  last  to  quarrel?" 

"  Your  father,  Charlie,  became  a  gay  young 
man  about  town,  and  very  much  the  fashion.  He 
was  like  you  in  person,  only  his  forehead  was 
lower  and  his  eye  not  so  steady.  Mr.  Danell 
studied  the  law  in  Chambers.  When  Robert 
Haughton  died,  what  with  his  debts,  what  with 
his  father's,  and  what  with  Charlie's  post-obits 
and  I  O  U's,  there  seemed  small  chance  indeed 
of  saving  the  estate  to  the  Haughtons.  But 
then  Mr.  Darrell  looked  close  into  matters,  and 
with  such  skill  did  he  settle  them  that  he  re- 
moved the  fear  of  foreclosure ;  and  what  with 
increasing  the  rental  here  and  there,  and  re- 
placing old  mortgages  by  new  at  less  interest, 
he  contrived  to  extract  from  the  property  an  in- 
come of  nine  hundred  pounds  a  year  to  Charlie 
(three  times  the  income  Darrell  had  inherited 
himself),  where  before  it  had  seemed  that  the 
debts  were  more  than  the  assets.  Foreseeing 
how  much  the  land  would  rise  in  value,  he  then 
earnestly  imjjlored  Charlie  (who  unluckily  had 
the  estate  in  fee-simple,  as  Mr.  Darrell  has  this, 
to  sell  if  he  pleased),  to  live  on  his  income,  and 
in  a  few  years  a  part  of  the  property  might  be 
sold  for  building  purposes,  on  terms  that  would 
save  all  the  rest,  with  the  old  house  in  which 
Darrells  and  Haughtons  lioth  had  once  reared 
generations.  Charlie  promised,  I  know,  and 
I've  no  doubt,  my  dear  young  Sir,  quite  sincere- 
ly— but  all  men  are  not  granite !  He  took  t(5 
gambling,  incurred  debts  of  honor,  sold  the  farms 
one  by  one,  resorted  to  usurers,  and  one  night, 
after  playing  six  hours  at  picquet,  nothing  was 
left  for  him  but  to  sell  all  that  remained  to  Mr. 
Cox  the  distiller,  unknown  to  Mr.  Darrell,  who 
was  then  married  himself,  working  hard,  and 
living  quite  out  of  the  news  of  the  fashionable 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


45 


world.  Then  Charlie  Ilaughton  sold  out  of  the 
Guards,  spent  whiit  he  got  for  his  commission, 
went  into  the  line ;  and  finally,  in  a  country 
town,  in  which  I  don't  think  he  was  quartered, 
hut  having  gone  there  on  some  sporting  sjjecu- 
lation,  was  unwillingly  detained — married — " 

"My  mother  I"  said  Lionel,  haughtily  ;  ''and 
the  best  of  women  she  is.     What  then  ?" 

♦'  Nothing,  my  dear  young  Sir — nothing,  ex- 
cept that  ^Ir.  Darrell  never  forgave  it.  lie  has 
his  prejudices ;  this  marriage  shocked  one  of 
them." 

'•Prejudice  against  my  poor  mother!  I  al- 
ways supjjoscd  sol  I  wonder  why  ?  The  most 
simple-hearted,  inotfeusive,  aftectionate  wo- 
man." 

"  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  it  is  beginning 
to  rain.  Let  us  go  home.  I  should  like  some 
luncheon  ;  it  breaks  the  day." 

"  Tell  me  first  why  Mr.  Darrell  has  a  preju- 
dice against  my  mother.  I  don't  think  that  he 
has  even  seen  her.  Unaccountable  caprice ! 
Shocked  him,  too — what  a  word  I  Tell  me — I 
beg — I  insist." 

"But  you  know,"  said  Fairthorn,  half  pite- 
ously.  half  snappishly,  "  that  ]Mrs.  Ilaughton 
was  the  daughter  of  a  linen-draper,  and  her  fa- 
ther's money  got  Charlie  out  of  the  county  jail ; 
and  Mr.  Darrell  said,  '  Sold  even  your  name  I' 
My  father  heard  him  say  it  in  the  hall  at  Faw- 
ley.  ^Ir.  Darrell  was  there  during  a  long  vaca- 
tion, and  your  father  came  to  see  him.  Your 
father  fired  up.  and  they  never  saw  each  other, 
I  believe,  again." 

Lionel  remained  still  as  if  thunder-stricken. 
Something  in  his  mother's  language  and  man- 
ner had  at  times  made  him  suspect  that  she  was 
not  so  well  born  as  his  father.  But  it  was  not 
the  discovery  that  she  was  a  tradesman's  daugh- 
ter that  galled  him ;  it  was  the  thought  that  his 
father  was  bought  for  the  altar  out  of  the  county 
jail  I  It  was  those  cutting  words,  "  Sold  even 
your  name!"  His  face,  before  very  crimson, 
became  livid;  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast.  lie 
walked  toward  the  old  gloomy  house  by  Fair- 
thorn's  side,  as  one  who,  for  the  first  time  in  life, 
feels  on  his  heart  the  leaden  weight  of  an  here- 
ditary shame. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Showing  how  sinful  it  is  in  a  man  who  does  not  care  for 
his  honor  to  beget  children. 

When  Lionel  saw  Mr.  Fairthorn  devoting 
his  intellectual  being  to  the  contents  of  a  cold 
chicken-pie,  he  silently  stepped  out  of  the  room, 
and  slunk  away  into  a  thick  copse  at  the  far- 
thest end  of  the  paddock.  He  longed  to  be 
alone.  The  rain  descended,  not  heavily,  but  in 
I)enetrating  drizzle  :  he  did  not  feel  it,  or  rath- 
er, he  felt  glad  that  there  was  no  gaudy,  mock- 
ing sunlight.  He  sate  down  forlorn  in" the  hol- 
lows of  a  glen  which  the  copse  covered,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  clasped  hands. 

Lionel  Haughton,  as  the  reader  may  have 
noticed,  was  no  i)remature  man — a  manly  bov, 
but  still  a  habitant  of  the  twilight,  dreamy  shad- 
ow-land of  boyhood.  Noble  elements  were  stir- 
ring fitfully  within  him,  but  their  agencies  were 
crude  and  undeveloped.      .Sometimes,  through 


the  native  acuteness  of  his  intellect,  he  appre- 
hended truths  quickly  and  truly  as  a  man ;  then, 
again,  through  the  warm  haze  of  undisciplined 
tenderness,  or  the  raw  mists  of  that  sensitive 
pride  in  which  object.';,  small  in  tliemselves, 
loom  large  witli  undetected  outlines,  he  fell 
back  into  the  passionate  dimness  of  a  child's 
reasoning.  He  was  intensely  ambitious  ;  Quix- 
otic in  the  point  of  honor;  dauntless  in  peril; 
but  morbidly  trembling  at  the  very  shadow  of 
disgrace,  as  a  foal,  destined  to  be  the  war-horse 
and  trample  down  leveled  steel,  starts  in  its 
tranquil  pastures  at  the  rustling  of  a  leaf.  Glow- 
ingly romantic,  but  not  inclined  to  vent  romance 
in  literary  creations,  his  feelings  were  the  more 
high-wrought  and  enthusiastic  because  they  had 
no  outlet  in  jioetic  cliannels.  Most  boys  of  great 
ability  and  strong  passion  write  ver=es — it  is  na- 
ture's relief  to  brain  and  heart  at  the  critical 
turning-age.  Most  boys  thus  gifted  do  so ;  a 
few  do  not,  and  out  of  tliose  few  Fate  selects 
the  great  men  of  action — those  large,  luminous 
characters  that  stamp  poetry  on  the  world's  pro- 
saic surface.  Lionel  had  in  him  the  pith  and 
substance  of  Fortune's  grand  %iobodies,  who 
become  Fame's  abrupt  somebodies  when  the 
chances  of  life  throw  suddenly  in  their  way  a 
noble  something,  to  be  ardently  coveted  and 
boldly  won.  But,  I  repeat,  as  yet  he  was  a  boy 
— so  he  sate  there,  his  hands  before  his  face,  an 
unreasoning  self-torturer.  He  knew  now  why 
this  haughty  Darrell  had  WTitteu  with  so  little 
tenderness  and  respect  to  his  beloved  mother. 
Darrell  looked  on  her  as  the  cause  of  his  igno- 
ble kinsman's  "sale  of  name  ;"  nay,  most  ])rob- 
ably  ascribed  to  her,  not  the  fond,  girii<li  love 
which  levels  all  disjjarities  of  rank,  but  the  vul- 
gar, cold-blooded  design  to  exchange  her  fa- 
ther's bank-notes  for  a  marriage  beyond  her 
station.  And  he  was  the  debtor  to  this  super- 
cilious creditor,  as  his  father  had  been  before 
him !  His  father ! — till  then  he  had  been  so 
proud  of  that  relationship.  ]Mrs.  Ilaughton  had 
not  been  happy  with  her  captain ;  his  confirmed 
habits  of  wild  dissipation  had  embittered  her 
union,  and  at  last  worn  away  her  wifely  afl:ec- 
'tions.  But  she  hatl  tended  and  nursed  him,  in 
his  last  illness,  as  the  lover  of  her  youth  ;  and 
though  occasionally  she  hinted  at  his  faults,  she 
ever  spoke  of  him  as  the  ornament  of  all  socie- 
ty ;  poor,  it  is  true,  harassed  by  unfeeling  cred- 
itors, but  the  finest  of  fine  gentlemen.  Lionel 
had  never  heard  from  her  of  the  ancestral  es- 
tates sold  for  a  gambling  debt ;  never  from  her 
of  the  county  jail  nor  the  mercenary  mesalliance. 
In  boyhood,  before  we  have  any  cause  to  be 
proud  of  ourselves,  we  arc  so  proud  of  our  fa- 
thers, if  we  have  a  decent  excuse  for  it.  Of  his 
father  could  Lionel  Ilaughton  be  proud  now  ? 
And  Darrell  was  cognizant  of  his  paternal  dis- 
grace, had  taunted  his  father  in  yonder  old  hall 
— for  what? — tlie  marriage  from  which  Lionel 
sprung?  The  hands  grew  tighter  and  tighter 
before  that  burning  face.  He  did  not  weep,  as 
he  had  done  in  Vance's  presence  at  a  tliought 
much  less  galling.  Not  that  tears  would  have 
misbecome  him.  Shallow  judges  of  human  na- 
ture are  they  who  think  that  tears  in  themselves 
ever  misbecome  boy  or  even  man.  Well  did 
the  sternest  of  Roman  writers  place  the  arch 
distinction  of  humanity,  aloft  from  all  meaner 
of  heaven's  creatures,  in  the  prerogative  of  tears  1 


46 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Sooner  mayest  thou  trust  thy  purse  to  a  profes- 
sional pickpocket  than  give  loyal  friendship  to 
the  man  who  boasts  of  eyes  to  which  the  heart 
never  mounts  in  dew !  Only,  when  man  weeps 
he  should  be  alone — not  because  tears  are  weak, 
but  because  they  should  be  sacred.  Tears  are 
akin  to  prayers.  Pharisees  parade  prayer :  im- 
postors parade  tears.  O  Pegasus,  Pegasus — 
softly,  softly! — thou  hast  hurried  me  off  amidst 
the  clouds:  drop  me  gently  down — there,  by  the 
side  of  the  motionless  boy  in  the  shadowy  glen. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

Lionel  Haiighton,  having  hitherto  much  improved  his 
oliance  of  fortune,  decides  the  question,  "What  -Hill 
he  do  witla  it?" 

"  I  HAVE  been  seeking  you  every  where,"  said 
a  well-known  voice ;  and  a  hand  rested  lightly 
on  Lionel's  shoulder.  The  boy  looked  up,  start- 
led, but  yet  heavily,  and  saw  Guy  Darrell,  the 
last  man  on  earth  he  could  have  desired  to  see. 
"Will  you  come  in  for  a  few  minutes?  you  are 
wanted." 

"  What  for  ?  I  would  rather  stay  here.  Who 
can  want  me  ?" 

Darrell,  struck  by  the  words,  and  the  sullen 
tone  in  which  they  were  uttered,  surveyed  Lio- 
nel's face  for  an  instant,  and  replied  in  a  voice 
involuntarily  more  kind  than  usual — 

"  Some  one  very  commonplace,  but,  since  the 
Picts  went  out  of  fashion,  very  necessary  to  mor- 
tals the  most  sublime.  I  ought  to  apologize  for 
his  coming.  You  threatened  to  leave  me  yes- 
terday because  of  a  defect  in  your  wardrobe. 
Mr.  Fairthorn  wrote  to  my  tailor  to  hasten  hith- 
er and  repair  it.  He  is  here.  I  commend  him 
to  your  custom !  Don't  despise  him  because  he 
makes  for  a  man  of  my  remote  generation. 
Tailors  are  keen  observers,  and  do  not  grow  out 
of  date  so  quickly  as  politicians." 

The  words  were  said  with  a  playful  good- 
humor  very  uncommon  to  Mr.  Darrell.  The 
intention  was  obviously  kind  and  kinsmanlike. 
Lionel  sprang  to  his  feet ;  his  lip  curled,  his  eye 
flashed,  and  his  crest  rose. 

"No,  Sir;  I  will  not  stoop  to  this!  I  will 
not  be  clothed  by  j-our  cliarity — yours !  I  will 
not  submit  to  an  imjilied  taunt  upon  my  poor 
mother's  ignorance  of  the  manners  of  a  rank  to 
which  she  was  not  born !  You  said  we  might 
not  like  each  other,  and  if  so,  we  should  part 
forever.  I  do  not  like  you,  and  I  will  go !" 
He  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  to  the  house — 
magnanimous.  If  Mr.  Darrell  had  not  been  the 
most  singular  of  men  he  might  well  have  been 
offended.  vVs  it  was,  though  none  less  accessi- 
ble to  surprise,  he  was  surprised.  But  offended  ? 
Judge  for  yourself.  "  I  declare,"  muttered  Guy 
Darrell,  gazing  on  the  boy's  receding  figure-^ 
"I  declare  that  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  could  once 
again  be  capable  of  an  emotion !  I  hope  I  am 
not  going  to  like  that  boy!  The  old  Darrell 
blood  in  his  veins,  surely.  'l  might  have  spoken 
as  he  did  at  his  age,  but  I  must  have  had  some 
better  reason  for  it.  What  did  I  say  to  justify 
such  an  explosion  !  Qiiid  fecA  f — ubi  lapsus  ? 
Gone,  no  doubt,  to  pack  up  his  knapsack,  and 
take  the  Road  to  Ruin!  Shall  I  let  him  go? 
Better  for  me,  if  I  am  really  in  danger  of  liking 
him;  and  so  be  at  his  mercy  to  sting — what? 


my  heart  ?  I  defy  him ;  it  is  dead.  No  ;  he 
shall  not  go  thus.  I  am  the  head  of  our  joint 
houses.  Houses!  I  wish  he  Aarf  a  house,  poor 
boy!  And  his  grandfather  loved  me.  Let  him 
go !  I  will  beg  his  pardon  first ;  and  he  may 
dine  in  his  drawers  if  that  will  settle  the  mat- 
ter!" 

Thus,  no  less  magnanimous  than  Lionel,  did 
this  misanthropical  man  follow  his  ungracious 
cousin.  "  Ha !"  cried  Darrell,  suddenly,  as,  ap- 
pi'oaching  the  threshold,  he  saw  Mr.  Fairthorn 
at  the  dining-room  window  occupied  in  nibbing 
a  pen  upon  an  ivory  thumb-stall — "  I  have  hit 
it !  That  abominable  Fairthorn  has  been  shed- 
ding its  prickles  !  How  could  I  trust  flesh  and 
blood  to  such  a  bramble?  I'll  know  what  it 
was,  this  instant !"  Vain  Menace  !  No  sooner 
did  Mr.  Fairthorn  catch  glimpse  of  Dan-ell's 
countenance  within  ten  yards  of  the  porch  than, 
his  conscience  taking  alarm,  he  rushed  inconti- 
nent from  the  window  —  the  apartment  —  and 
ere  Darrell  could  fling  open  the  door,  was  lost 
in  some  lair — "  nullis  penetrabilis  astris" — in 
that  sponge-like  and  cavernous  abode,  where- 
with benignant  Providence  had  suited  the  local- 
ity to  the  creature. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

New  imbroglio  in  that  ever-recurring,  never-to-be-settled 
question,  "What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

With  a  disappointed  glare,  and  a  baffled 
shrug  of  the  shoulder,  Mr.  Darrell  turned  from 
the  dining-room,  and  passed  up  the  stairs  to 
Lionel's  chamber,  opened  the  door  quickly,  and 
extending  his  hand,  said,  in  that  tone  which 
had  disarmed  the  wrath  of  ambitious  factions, 
and  even  (if  fame  lie  not)  once  seduced  from 
the  hostile  Treasury-bench  a  placeman's  vote, 
"  I  must  have  hurt  your  feelings,  and  I  come  to 
beg  your  pardon !" 

But  before  this  time  Lionel's  proud  heart,  in 
which  ungrateful  anger  could  not  long  find  room, 
had  smitten  him  for  so  ill  a  return  to  well-meant 
and  not  indelicate  kindness.  And,  his  wounded 
egotism  appeased  by  its  very  outburst,  he  had 
called  to  mind  Fairthoi'n's  allusions  to  Darrell's 
secret  griefs — griefs  that  must  have  been  indeed 
stormy  so  to  have  revulsed  the  currents  of  a  life. 
And,  despite  those  griefs,  the  great  man  had 
spoken  playfully  to  him— playfully  in  order  to 
make  light  of  obligations.  So  when  Guy  Dar- 
rell now  extended  that  hand,  and  stooped  to  that 
apology,  Lionel  was  fairly  overcome.  Tears, 
before  refused,  now  found  irresistible  way.  The 
hand  he  could  not  take,  but,  yielding  to  his 
yearning  impulse,  he  threw  his  arms  fairly  round 
his  host's  neck,  leaned  his  young  check  upon 
that  granite  breast,  and  sobbed  out  incoherent 
words  of  passionate  repentance — honest,  vener- 
ating affection.  Dai-rell's  face  changed,  looking 
for  a  moment  wondrous  soft — and  then,  as  by 
an  effort  of  supreme  self-control,  it  became  se- 
verely placid.  He  did  not  return  that  embrace, 
but  certainly  he  in  no  way  repelled  it ;  nor  did 
he  trust  himself  to  speak  till  the  boy  liad  ex- 
hausted the  force  of  his  first  feelings,  and  had 
turned  to  dry  his  tears. 

Then  he  said,  with  a  soothing  sweetness : 
"  Lionel  Haughton,  you  have  the  heart  of  a  gen- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


47 


tleman  that  can  never  listen  to  a  frank  apolopy 
for  unintentional  wrong,  but  what  it  sprin_c;s  | 
forth  to  take  the  blame  to  itself,  and  return  apol- 
ogv  ten-fold.     Enough  I     A  mistake,  no  doubt,  ! 
on"  both  sides.     More  time  must  elapse  before  ' 
either  can  truly  say  that  he  does  not  like  the 
other.     Meanwhile,"  added  Darrell,  with  almost 
a  laugh — and  that  concluding  query  showed  that 
even  on  trifles  the  man  was  bent  upon  either 
forcing  or  stealing  his  own  will  upon  others — 
'•meanwhile,  must  I  send  away  the  tailor?" 
I  need  not  repeat  Lionel's  answer. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Darrell:  mystery  in  hU  past  life.     What  has  he  done 
with  it? 

Some  days  passed — each  day  varying  little 
from  the  other.  It  was  the  habit  of  Darrell,  if 
he  went  late  to  rest,  to  rise  early.  He  never 
allowed  himself  more  than  five  hours'  sleep.  A 
man  greater  than  Guy  Darrell — Sir  Walter 
Raleigh — carved  from  the  solid  day  no  larger  a 
slice  for  Morpheus.  And  it  was  this  habit,  per- 
haps, yet  more  than  temperance  in  diet,  which 
preserved  to  Darrell  his  remarkable  youthful- 
ness  of  aspect  and  frame,  so  that  at  fifty-two  he 
looked,  and  really  was,  younger  than  many  a 
strong  man  of  thirty- five.  For,  certain  it  is, 
that  on  entering  middle  life,  he  who  would  keep 
his  brain  clear,  his  step  elastic,  his  muscles  from 
fleshiness,  his  nerves  from  tremor — in  a  word, 
retain  his  youth  in  spite  of  the  register — should 
beware  of  long  slumbers.  Nothing  ages  like 
laziness.  The  hours  before  breakfast  Darrell 
devoted  first  to  exercise,  whatever  the  weather 
— next  to  his  calm  scientific  pursuits.  At  ten 
o'clock  punctually  he  rode  out  alone,  and  seldom 
returned  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  Then  he 
would  stroll  forth  with  Lionel  into  devious 
woodlands,  or  lounge  with  him  along  the  margin 
of  the  lake,  or  lie  down  on  the  tedded  grass, 
call  the  boy's  attention  to  the  insect  populace 
which  sports  out  its  happy  life  in  the  summer 
months,  and  treat  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  each 
varying  species,  with  a  quaint  learning,  half 
humorous,  half  grave.  He  was  a  minute  ob- 
server and  an  accomplished  naturalist.  His 
range  of  knowledge  was,  indeed,  amazingly 
large  for  a  man  who  has  had  to  pass  his  best 
years  in  a  dry  and  absorbing  study  :  necessarily 
not  so  profound  in  each  section  as  that  of  a 
special  professor,  but  if  the  science  was  often 
on  the  surface,  the  thoughts  he  deduced  from 
what  he  knew  were  as  often  original  and  deep. 
A  maxim  of  his,  which  he  dropped  out  one  day 
to  Lionel  in  his  careless  manner,  but  pointed 
diction,  may  perhaps  illustrate  his  own  practice 
and  its  results:  "Never  think  it  enough  to 
have  solved  the  problem  started  by  another 
mind,  till  you  have  deduced  from  it  a  corollary 
of  your  own." 

After  dinner,  which  was  not  over  till  past 
eight  o'clock,  they  always  adjourned  to  the  li- 
brary, Fairthom  vanishing  into  a  recess,  Darrell 
and  Lionel  each  with  his  several  book,  then  an 
air  on  the  flute,  and  each  to  his  own  room  be- 
fore eleven.  No  life  could  be  more  methodical ; 
yet  to  Lionel  it  had  an  animating  charm,  for 
his  interest  in  his  host  daily  increased,   and 


varied  his  thoughts  with  perpetual  occupation. 
Darrell,  on  the  contrary,  while  more  kind  and 
cordial,  more  cautiously  on  his  guard  not  to 
wound  his  young  guest's  susceptibilities  than  he 
had  been  before  the  quarrel  and  its  reconcilia- 
tion, did  not  seem  to  feel  for  Lionel  the  active 
interest  which  Lionel  felt  for  him.  He  did  not, 
as  most  clever  men  are  apt  to  do  in  their  inter- 
course with  youth,  attempt  to  draw  him  out, 
plomb  his  intellect,  or  guide  his  tastes.  If  he 
was  at  times  instructive,  it  was  because  talk  fell 
on  subjects  on  which  it  pleased  himself  to  touch, 
and  in  which  he  could  not  speak  without  invol- 
untarily instructing.  Nor  did  he  ever  allure  the 
boy  to  talk  of  his  school-days,  of  his  friends,  of 
his  predilections,  his  hopes,  his  future.  In 
short,  had  you  observed  them  together,  you 
would  have  never  sujjposed  they  were  connec- 
tions— that  one  could  and  ought  to  influence 
and  direct  the  career  of  the  other.  You  would 
have  said  the  host  certainly  liked  the  guest,  as 
any  man  would  like  a  promising,  warm-hearted, 
high-spirited,  graceful  boy,  under  his  own  roof 
for  a  short  time,  but  who  felt  that  that  boy  was 
nothing  to  him — would  soon  pass  from  his  eye 
— form  friends,  pursuits,  aims — with  which  he 
could  be  in  no  way  commingled,  for  which  he 
should  be  wholly  irresponsible.  There  was  also 
this  peculiarity  in  DaiTell's  conversation :  if  he 
never  spoke  of  his  guest's  past  and  future, 
neither  did  he  ever  do  more  than  advert  in  the 
most  general  terms  to  his  own.  Of  that  grand 
stage,  on  which  he  had  been  so  brilliant  an 
actor,  he  imparted  no  reminiscences ;  of  those 
great  men,  the  leaders  of  his  age,  with  whom 
he  had  mingled  familiarly,  he  told  no  anecdotes. 
Equally  silent  was  he  as  to  the  earlier  steps  in 
his  career,  the  modes  by  which  he  had  studied, 
the  accidents  of  which  he  had  seized  advantage 
— silent  there  as  upon  the  causes  he  had  gained, 
or  the  debates  he  had  adorned.  Never  could 
you  have  supposed  that  this  man,  still  in  the 
prime  of  public  life,  had  been  the  theme  of 
journals,  and  the  boast  of  party.  Neither  did 
he  ever,  as  men  who  talk  easily  at  their  o\vn 
hearths  are  prone  to  do,  speak  of  projects  in  the 
future,  even  though  the  projects  be  no  vaster 
than  the  planting  of  a  tree  or  the  alteration  of  a 
parterre — projects  with  which  rural  life  so  copi- 
ously and  so  innocently  teems.  The  past  seemed 
as  if  it  had  left  to  him  no  memory,  the  future 
as  if  it  stored  for  him  no  desire.  But  did  the 
past  leave  no  memory  ?  Why  then  at  intervals 
would  the  book  slide  from  his  eye,  the  head 
sink  upon  the  breast,  and  a  shade  of  unuttera- 
ble dejection  darken  over  the  grand  beauty  of 
that  strong  stern  countenance?  Still  that  de- 
jection was  not  morbidly  fed  and  encouraged, 
for  he  would  fling  it  from  him  with  a  quick  im- 
patient gesture  of  the  head,  resume  the  book  res- 
olutely, or  change  it  for  another  which  induced 
fresh  trains  of  thought,  or  look  over  Lionel's 
shoulder,  and  make  some  subtle  comment  on 
his  choice,  or  call  on  Fairthom  for  the  flute; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  face  was  severely 
serene  again.  And  be  it  here  said,  that  it  is 
only  in  the  poetry  of  young  gentlemen,  or  the 
prose  of  lady  novelists,  that  a  man  in  good 
health,  and  of  sound  intellect,  wears  the  livery 
of  unvarj-ing  gloom.  However  great  his  causes 
of  sorrow,  he  does  not  forever  parade  its  osten- 
tatious mourning,  nor  follow  the  hearse  of  hLs 


48 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


hopes  with  the  long  face  of  an  undertaker.  He 
will  still  have  his  gleams  of  cheerfulness — his 
moments  of  good-humor.  The  old  smile  will 
sometimes  light  the  eye,  and  awake  the  old 
playfulness  of  the  lip.  But  what  a  great  and 
critical  sorrow  does  leave  behind  is  often  far 
worse  than  the  sorrow  itself  has  been.  It  is  a 
chance  in  the  inner  man,  which  strands  him,  as 
Guv  Darrell  seemed  stranded,  upon  the  shoal 
of  the  Present ;  which,  the  more  he  strive  man- 
fully to  bear  his  burden,  warns  him  the  more 
from  dwelling  on  the  Past ;  and  the  more  im- 
pressively it  enforce  the  lesson  of  the  vanity  of 
htmian  wishes,  strikes  the  more  from  his  reck- 
oning illusive  hopes  in  the  Future.  Thus  out 
of  our  threefold  existence  two  parts  are  annihi- 
lated— the  what  has  been — the  what  shall  be. 
We  fold  our  arms,  stand  upon  the  petty  and 
steep  cragstone,  which  alone  looms  out  of  the 
Measureless  Sea,  and  say  to  ourselves,  looking 
neither  backward  nor  beyond,  "Let  us  bear 
what  is ;"  and  so  for  the  moment  the  eye  can 
lighten  and  the  lip  can  smile. 

Lionel  could  no  longer  glean  from  ]Mr.  Fair- 
thorn  any  stray  hints  upon  the  family  records. 
That  gentleman  had  endently  been  reprimanded 
for  indiscretion,  or  warned  against  its  repetition, 
and  he  became  reser\-ed  and  mum  as  if  he  had 
just  emerged  from  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  In- 
deed he  shunned  trusting  himself  again  alone  to 
Lionel,  and,  aftecting  a  long  arrear  of  corre- 
spondence on  behalf  of  his  employer,  left  the  lad 
during  the  forenoons  to  solitary  angling,  or  social 
intercourse  with  the  swans  and  the  tame  doe. 
But  from  some  mystic  concealment  within  doors 
would  often  float  far  into  the  open  air  the  melo- 
dies of  that  magic  flute ;  and  the  boy  would  glide 
back,  along  the  dark-red  mournful  walls  of  the 
old  house.or  the  futile  pomp  of  pilastered  ar- 
cades in  the  uncompleted  new  one,  to  listen  to 
the  sound :  listening,  he,  blissful  boy,  forgot  the 
present ;  he  seized  the  unchallenged  royalty  of 
his  yeai-s.  For  him  no  rebels  in  the  past  con- 
spired with  poison  to  the  wine-cup,  murder  to 
the  sleep.  No  deserts  in  the  future,  arresting 
the  march  of  ambition,  said,  "  Here  are  sands 
for  a  pilgrim,  not  fields  for  a  conqueror." 


CHAPTER  X. 


In  which  chapter  the  History  quietly  moves  on  to  the 
next 

Thus  nearly  a  week  had  gone,  and  Lionel  be- 
gan to  feel  perplexed  as  to  the  duration  of  his 
visit.  Should  he  be  the  first  to  suggest  depart- 
ure? !Mr.  Darrell  rescued  him  from  that  em- 
barrassment. On  the  seventh  day,  Lionel  met 
him  in  a  lane  near  the  house,  returning  from  his 
habitual  ride.  The  boy  walked  home  by  the 
side  of  the  horseman,  patting  the  steed,  admir- 
ing its  shape,  and  praising  the  beauty  of  another 
saddle-horse,  smaller  and  slighter,  which  he  had 
seen  in  the  paddock  exercised  by  a  groom. 
"Do  you  ever  ride  that  chestnut?  I  think  it 
even  handsomer  than  this." 

'•Half  our  preferences  are  due  to  the  vanity 
they  flatter.  Few  can  ride  this  horse — any  one, 
perhaps,  that." 

"There  speaks  the  Dare-all  1"  said  Lionel, 
laughing. 


The  host  did  not  look  displeased. 

'•  Where  no  difficulty,  there  no  pleasure,"  said 
he,  in  his  curt  laconic  diction.  "  I  was  in  Spain 
two  years  ago.  I  had  not  an  English  horse  there, 
so  I  bought  that  Audalusian  jennet.  What  has 
served  him  at  need,  no  preux  chevalier  would 
leave  to  the  chance  of  ill-usage.  So  the  jennet 
came  with  me  to  England.  You  have  not  been 
much  accustomed  to  ride,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Not  much;  but  my  dear  mother  thought  I 
ought  to  learn.  She  pinched  for  a  whole  year 
to  have  me  taught  at  a  riding-school  during  one 
school  vacation." 

"Your  mother's  relations  are,  I  believe,  well 
off".     Do  they  suffer  her  to  pinch  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  she  has  relations  living ; 
she  never  speaks  of  them." 

"Indeed  I"  This  was  the  first  question  on 
home  matters  that  Darrell  had  ever  directly  ad- 
dressed to  Lionel.  He  there  dropped  the  sub- 
ject, and  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "I  was  not 
aware  that  you  are  a  horseman,  or  I  -nould  have 
asked  you  to  accompany  me  ;  v>-ill  you  do  so  to- 
morrow, and  mount  the  jennet?" 

"Oh,  thank  you;  I  should  like  it  so  much." 

Darrell  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  bright 
grateful  eyes.  "I  am  only  sorry,"  he  added, 
looking  aside,  "  that  our  excui-sions  can  be  but 
few.  On  Friday  next  I  shall  submit  to  you  a 
proposition ;  if  you  accept  it,  we  shall  part  on 
Saturday — hking  each  other,  I  hope ;  speaking 
for  myself,  the  experiment  has  not  failed ;  and 
on  yours?" 

"On  mine  I  oh,  Mr.  Darrell,  if  I  dared  but 
tell  you  what  recollections  of  yourself  the  ex- 
periment will  bequeath  to  me  1" 

"  Do  not  tell  me,  if  they  imply  a  compliment," 
answered  Darrell,  with  the  Ioav  silvery  laugh 
which  so  melodiously  expressed  indifference, 
and  repelled  affection.  He  entered  the  stable- 
yard,  dismounted  ;  and  on  returning  to  Lionel, 
the  sound  of  the  flute  stole  forth,  as  if  from  the 
eaves  of  the  gabled  roof.  "  Could  the  pipe  of 
Horace's  Fauuus  be  sweeter  than  that  flute  ?" 
said  Darrell, 

"'  Utcxinqiin  dulci,  Tyndare,  fistula, 
ValUs,'  etc. 

■Wliat  a  lovely  ode  that  is !  What  knowledge  of 
town  life !  what  susceptibility  to  the  rural !  Of 
all  the  Latins,  Horace  is  the  only  one  with  whom 
I  could  \vish  to  have  spent  a  week.  But  no !  I 
could  not  have  discussed  the  brief  span  of  hu- 
man life  with  locks  steeped  in  ^lalobathran  balm, 
i  and  wreathed  with  that  silly  myrtle.  Horace 
'  and  I  would  have  quarreled  over  the  first  heady 
bowl  of  Massic.  We  never  can  quarrel  now  I 
Blessed  subject  and  poet-laureate  of  Queen  Pro- 
serpine, and,  I  dare  swear,  the  most  gentleman- 
like poet  she  ever  received  at  court,  henceforth 
his  task  is  to  uncoil  the  asps  from  the  brows  of 
Alecto,  and  arrest  the  ambitious  Orion  from  the 
chase  after  visionary  lions." 


CHAPTER  XL 

Showing  that  if  a  good  face  is  a  letter  of  recommenda- 
tioR,  a  good  heart  is  a  letter  of  credit. 

The  next  day  they  rode  forth,  host  and  guest, 

and  that  ride  proved  an  eventful  crisis  in  the 

I  fortune  of  Lionel  Haughton.     Hitherto  I  have 


"WHAT  WILL  UE  DO  WITH  IT? 


49 


elaborately  dwelt  on  the  fact  that,  whatever  the 
regard  Danell  mifilit  feel  for  him,  it  was  a  re- 
gard apart  from  that  interest  which  accepts  a 
responsibility,  and  links  to  itself  a  fate.  And 
even  if,  at  moments,  the  powerful  and  wealthy 
man  had  felt  that  interest,  he  had  thrust  it  from 
him.  That  he  meant  to  be  generous  was  indeed 
certain,  and  this  he  had  typically  shown  in  a 
very  trite  matter-of-fact  way.  The  tailor,  whose 
visit  had  led  to  such  perturbation,  had  received 
instructions  beyond  the  mere  su])ply  of  the  rai- 
ment for  which  he  had  been  summoned;  and  a 
large  patent  portmanteau,  containing  all  that 
might  constitute  the  liberal  outfit  of  a  young 
man  iu  the  rank  of  a  gentleman,  had  arrived  at 
Fawley,  and  amazed  and  moved  Lionel,  whom 
Dan-eil  had  by  this  time  thoroughly  reconciled 
to  the  acceptance  of  benefits.  The  gift  denoted 
this,  '■  In  recognizing  you  as  kinsman,  I  shall 
henceforth  provide  for  yon  as  gentleman."  Dar- 
rell  indeed  meditated  applying  for  an  appoint- 
ment in  one  of  the  pubhc  othces,  the  settlement 
of  a  liberal  allowance,  and  a  parting  shake  of 
the  hand,  which  should  imply,  "  I  have  now  be- 
haved as  becomes  me ;  the  rest  belongs  to  you. 
We  may  never  meet  again.  There  is  no  reason 
why  this  good-by  may  not  be  forever." 

But  in  the  course  of  that  ride  Darrell's  inten- 
tions changed.  Wherefore?  You  will  never 
guess !  Nothing  so  remote  as  the  distance  be- 
tween cause  and  effect,  and  the  cause  for  the 
effect  here  was — poor  little  Sophy. 

The  day  was  fresh,  with  a  lovely  breeze,  as 
the  two  riders  rode  briskly  over  the  turf  of  roll- 
ing common-lands,  with  the  feathen,-  boughs  of 
neighboring  woodlands  tossed  joyoitsly  to  and 
fro  by  the  sportive  summer  wind.  The  exhila- 
rating exercise  and  air  raised  Lionel's  spirits, 
and  released  his  tongue  from  all  trammels ;  and 
when  a  boy  is  in  high  spirits,  ten  to  one  but  he 
grows  a  frank  egotist,  feels  the  teeming  life  of  his 
individuality,  and  talks  about  himself.  Quite 
unconsciously  Lionel  rattled  out  gay  anecdotes 
of  his  school-days ;  his  quarrel  with  r.  demoni- 
acal usher ;  how  he  ran  away  ;  what  befell  him ; 
how  the  doctor  went  after,  and  brought  him 
back;  how  splendidly  the  doctor  behaved — nei- 
ther flogged  nor  expelled  him,  but  after  patient 
listening,  while  he  rebuked  the  pupil  dismissed 
the  usher,  to  the  joy  of  the  whole  academy  ;  how 
he  fought  the  head  bo}'  in  the  school  for  calling 
the  doctor  a  sneak ;  how,  licked  twice,  he  yet 
fought  that  head  boy  a  third  time,  and  licked 
him ;  how,  when  head  boy  himself,  he  had  roused 
the  whole  school  into  a  civil  war,  dividing  the 
boys  into  Cavaliers  and  Koundheads ;  how  clay- 
was  rolled  out  into  cannon-balls  and  pistol-shot, 
sticks  shaped  into  swords ;  the  play-ground  dis- 
turfed  to  construct  fortifications  ;  how  a  sloven- 
ly stout  boy  enacted  Cromwell ;  how  he  himself 
was  elevated  into  Prince  Rupert ;  and  how,  re- 
versing ail  history,  and  infamously  degi'ading 
Cromwell,  Rupert  would  not  consent  to  be  beat- 
en ;  and  Cromwell  at  the  last,  disabled  by  an 
untoward  blow  across  the  knuckles,  ignomini- 
ously  yielded  himself  prisoner,  was  tried  by  a 
court-martial,  and  sentenced  to  be  shot !  To  all 
this  rubbish  did  Darrell  incline  his  patient  ear 
— not  encouraging,  not  interrupting,  but  some- 
times stifling  a  sigh  at  the  sound  of  Lionel's 
merry  laugh,  or  the  sight  of  his  fair  face,  with 
heightened  glow  on  its  cheeks,  and  his  long 
D 


silky  hair,  worthy  the  name  of  love-locks,  blown 
by  the  wind  from  the  open  loyal  features,  which 
might  well  have  graced  the  portrait  of  some 
youthful  Cavalier.  On  bounded  the  Spanish 
jennet,  on  rattled  the  boy  rider.  He  had  left 
school  now,  in  his  headlong  talk ;  he  was  de- 
scribing his  first  friendship  with  Frank  Vance, 
as  a  lodger  at  his  mother's ;  how  example  fired 
him,  and  he  took  to  sketch-work  and  painting ; 
how  kindly  Vance  gave  him  lessons ;  how  at 
one  time  he  wished  to  be  a  painter;  how  much 
the  mere  idea  of  such  a  thing  vexed  liis  mother, 
and  how  little  she  was  moved  when  lie  told  her 
that  Titian  was  of  a  very  ancient  family,  and 
that  Francis  I.,  archetype  of  gentlemen.  Visited 
Leonardo  da  Vinci's  sick-bed ;  and  that  Henry 
VIII.  had  said  to  a  pert  lord  who  had  snubbed 
Holbein,  "  I  can  make  a  lord  any  day,  but  I  can 
not  make  a  Holbein  ;"  how  Mrs.  Haughton  still 
confounded  all  painters  in  the  general  image  of 
the  painter  and  plumber  who  had  cheated  lier 
so  shamefully  in  the  renewed  window-sashes  and 
redecorated  walls,  which  Time  and  the  four  chil- 
dren of  an  Irish  family  had  made  necessarj'  to  the 
letting  of  the  first  floor.  And  these  playful  allu- 
sions to  the  maternal  ideas  were  still  not  irrever- 
ent, but  contrived  so  as  rather  to  prepossess  Dar- 
rell in  Mrs.  Haughton's  favor,  by  bringing  out 
traits  of  a  simple  natural  mother,  too  proud,  per- 
haps, of  her  only  son,  not  caring  what  she  did, 
how  she  worked,  so  that  he  might  not  lose  caste 
as  a  born  Haughton.  Darrell  undei-stood,  and 
nodded  his  head  approvingly.  "Certainly,"  he 
said,  speaking  almost  for  the  first  time,  ''fame 
confers  a  rank  above  that  of  gentlemen  and  of 
kings  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  issues  her  patent  of 
nobility,  it  matters  not  a  straw  whether  the  re- 
cipient be  the  son  of  a  Bourbon  or  of  a  tallow- 
chandler.  But  if  Fame  withhold  her  patent — 
if  a  well-born  man  paint  aldermen,  and  be  not 
famous  (and  I  dare  say  you  would  have  been 
neither  a  Titian  nor  a  Holbein),  why,  he  might 
as  well  be  a  painter  and  plumber,  and  has  a 
better  chance,  even  of  bread  and  cheese,  by 
standing  to  his  post  as  gentleman.  ]Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton was  right,  and  I  respect  her." 

"  Quite  right.  If  I  lived  to  the  age  of  Me- 
thuselah, I  could  not  paint  a  head  like  Frank 
Vance." 

'•  And  even  he  is  not  famous  yet.  Never  heard 
of  him." 

"He  will  be  famous — I  am  sure  of  it;  and 
if  you  lived  in  London,  you  would  hear  of  him 
even  now.    Oh,  Sir!  such  a  portrait  as  he  paint- 
ed the  other  day !    But  I  must  tell  you  all  about 
it."     And  therewith  Lionel  plunged  at  once, 
medias  res,  into  the  brief  broken  epic  of  little 
Sophy,  and  the  eccentric  infirm  Belisarius  for 
!  whose  sake  she  first  toiled  and  then  begged ; 
'  with  what  artless  eloquence  he  brought  out  the 
colors  of  the  whole  story — now  its  humor,  now 
its  pathos ;  with  what  beautifying  sympathy  he 
adorned  the  image  of  the  little  vagrant  girl,  with 
■  her  mien  of  gentlewoman  and  her  simplicity  of 
I  child  ;  the  river-e.xcursion  to  Hampton  Court ; 
I  her  still  delight ;    how  annoyed  he  felt  when 
I  Vance  seemed  ashamed  of  her  before  those  fine 
I  people  ;  the  orchard  scene  in  which  he  had  read 
:  Darrell's  letter,  that,  for  the  time,  drove  her 
from  the  foremost  place  in  his  thoughts ;  the 
return  home,  the  parting,  her  wistful  look  back, 
[  the  visit  to  the  Cobbler's  next  day — even  her 


60 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


farewell  gift,  the  nursery  poem,  with  the  lines 
written  on  the  fly-leaf,  he  had  them  by  heart! 
Darrell,  the  grand  advocate,  felt  he  could  not 
have  produced  on  a  jury,  with  those  elements, 
the  effect  which  that  boy-narrator  produced  on 
his  granite  self. 

"And,  oh,  Sir!"  cried  Lionel,  checking  his 
horse,  and  even  arresting  Darrell's  with  bold 
right  hand,  "oh!"  said  he,  as  he  brought  liis 
moist  and  pleading  eyes  in  full  battery  upon  tlie 
shaken  fort  to  which  he  had  mined  his  way — 
"oh.  Sir!  you  are  so  wise,  and  rich,  and  kind, 
do  rescue  that  poor  child  from  the  penury  and 
liardships  of  such  a  life !  If  you  could  but  have 
seen  and  heard  her!  She  could  never  have 
been  born  to  it !  You  look  away — I  offend  you. 
I  have  no  right  to  tax  your  benevolence  for  oth- 
ers ;  but,  instead  of  showering  favors  upon  me, 
so  little  would  suffice  for  her,  if  she  were  but 
above  positive  want,  with  that  old  man  (she 
would  not  be  happy  without  him),  safe  in  such 
a  cottage  as  you  give  to  your  own  peasants !  I 
am  a  man,  or  shall  be  one  soon ;  I  can  wrestle 
with  the  world,  and  force  my  way  somehow ; 
but  that  delicate  child,  a  village  show,  or  a  beg- 
gar on  the  high-i-oad !  no  mother,  no  brother,  no 
one  but  that  broken-down  crii)ple,  leaning  upon 
her  arm  as  his  crutch.  I  can  not  bear  to  think 
of  it.  I  am  sure  I  shall  meet  her  again  some- 
where ;  and  when  I  do,  may  I  not  write  to  you, 
and  will  you  not  come  to  her  hfelp  ?  Do  sjieak 
— do  say  '  Yes,'  Mr.  Darrell." 

The  rich  man's  breast  heaved  slightly;  he 
closed  his  eyes,  but  for  a  moment.  There  was 
a  short  and  sharp  struggle  with  his  better  self, 
and  the  better  self  conquered. 

"  Let  go  my  reins — see,  my  horse  puts  down 
his  ears — he  may  do  you  a  mischief.  Now  can- 
ter on — j'ou  shall  be  satisfied.  Give  me  a  mo- 
ment to — to  unbutton  my  coat — it  is  too  tight 
for  me." 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Guy  Barrel  gives  way  to  an  impulse,  and  quickly  decides 
what  he  will  do  with  it. 

"Lionel  Haug-hton,"  said  Guy  Darrell,  re- 
gaining his  young  cousin's  side,  and  speaking  in 
a  firm  and  measured  voice,  "  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  one  very  happy  minute ;  the  sight  of  a 
heart  so  fresh  in  the  limpid  purity  of  goodness 
is  a  luxuiy  you  can  not  comprehend  till  you 
have  come  to  my  age ;  journeyed,  like  me,  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  found  all  barren.  Ilecd 
me ;  if  you  had  been  half  a  dozen  years  older, 
and  this  child  for  whom  you  plead  had  been  a 
fair  young  woman,  perhaps  just  as  innocent,  just 
as  charming — more  in  peril — my  benevolence 
would  have  lain  as  dormant  as  a  stone.  A  young 
man's  foolish  sentiment  for  a  pretty  girl.  As 
your  true  friend,  I  should  have  shrugged  my 
shoulders,  and  said,  'Beware!'  Had  I  been 
your  father,  I  should  have  taken  alarm,  and 
frowned.  I  should  have  seen  the  sickly  ro- 
mance, which  ends  in  dupes  or  deceivers.  But 
at  your  age,  you  hearty,  genial,  and  open-heart- 
ed boy — you  caught  but  by  the  chivalrous  com- 
passion for  helpless  female  childhood — oh,  that 
you  were  my  son — oh,  that  my  dear  father's 
blood  were  in  those  knightly  veins !  I  had  a 
son  once!     God  took  him;"  the  strong  man's 


lips  quivered — he  humed  on.  "  I  felt  there  was 
manhood  in  you  when  you  wrote  to  fling  my 
churlish  favors  in  my  teeth — when  you  would 
have  left  my  roof-tree  in  a  burst  of  passion 
which  might  be  foolish,  but  was  nobler  than  the 
wisdom  of  calculating  submission  —  manhood, 
but  only  perhaps  man's  pride  as  man — man's 
heart  not  less  cold  than  winter.  To-day  you 
have  shown  me  something  far  better  than  pride ; 
that  nature  which  constitutes  the  heroic  tem- 
perament is  completed  by  two  attributes — un- 
flinching purpose,  disinterested  humanity.  I 
know  not  yet  if  you  have  the  first ;  you  reveal 
to  me  the  second.  Yes !  I  accept  the  duties  you 
propose  to  me ;  I  will  do  more  than  leave  to  you 
the  chance  of  discovering  this  poor  child.  I  will 
direct  my  solicitor  to  take  the  right  steps  to  do 
so.  I  will  see  that  she  is  safe  from  the  ills  you 
fear  for  her.  Lionel ;  more  still,  I  am  impa- 
tient till  I  write  to  Mrs.  Haughton.  I  did  her 
wrong.  Remember,  I  have  never  seen  her.  I 
resented  in  her  the  cause  of  my  quarrel  with 
your  father,  who  was  once  dear  to  me.  Enough 
of  that.  I  disliked  the  tone  of  her  letters  to 
me.  I  disliked  it  in  the  mother  of  a  boy  who 
had  Darrell  blood ;  other  reasons  too — let  them 
pass.  But  in  providing  for  your  education,  I 
certainly  thought  her  relations  provided  for  her 
support.  She  never  asked  me  for  help  there ; 
and,  judging  of  her  hastily,  I  thought  she  would 
not  have  scru])led  to  do  so  it  my  help  there  had 
not  been  forestalled.  You  have  made  me  un- 
derstand her  better;  and  at  all  events,  three- 
fourths  of  what  we  are  in  boyhood  most  of  us 
owe  to  our  mothers!  You  are  frank,  fearless, 
affectionate — a  gentleman.  I  respect  the  moth- 
er who  has  such  a  son." 

Certainly  praise  was  rare  upon  Darrell's  lips, 
but,  when  he  did  praise,  he  knew  how  to  do  it ! 
And  no  man  will  ever  command  others  who  has 
not  by  nature  that  gift.  It  can  not  be  learned. 
Art  and  experience  can  only  refine  its  expres- 
sion. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

He  who  sec3  his  heir  in  his  own  child,  cames  his  eye 
over  hopes  and  possessions  lying  far  beyond  his  grave- 
stone ;  viewing  his  life,  even  here,  as  a  period  but 
closed  with  a  comma.  He  wlio  sees  his  heir  in  anoth- 
er man's  child,  sees  the  full  stop  at  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence. 

Lionel's  departure  was  indefinitely  post- 
poned; nothing  more  was  said  of  it.  Mean- 
while Darrell's  manner  toward  him  underwent 
a  marked  change.  The  previous  indifference 
the  rich  kinsman  had  hitherto  shown  as  to  the 
boy's  past  life,  and  the  peculiarities  of  his  intel^ 
lect  and  character,  \vholly  vanished.  He  sought 
now,  on  the  contrary,  to  plumb  thoroughly  the 
more  hidden  depths  which  lurk  in  the  nature  of 
every  human  being,  and  which,  in  Lionel,  were 
the  more  difficult  to  discern  from  the  vivacity 
and  candor  which  covered  with  so  smooth  and 
charming  a  surface  a  pride  tremulously  sensi- 
tive, and  an  ambition  that  startled  himself  in 
the  hours  when  solitude  and  reverie  reflect  upon 
the  visions  of  Youth  the  giant  outline  of  its  own 
hopes. 

Darrell  was  not  dissatisfied  with  the  results 
of  this  survey ;  yet  often,  when  perhaps  most 
pleased,  a  shade  would  pass  over  his  counte- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


51 


nance  •  and,  had  a  woman  who  loved  him  been 
bv  to  listen,  she  would  have  heard  the  short, 
slight  sigh  which  came  and  went  too  quickly  for 
the  duller  sense  of  man's  friendship  to  recog- 
nize it  as  the  sound  of  sorrow. 

In  Darrell  himself,  thus  insensibly  altered, 
Lionel  daily  discovered  more  to  charm  his  in- 
terest and  deci)en  his  affection.  In  this  man's 
nature  there  were,  indeed,  such  wondrous  un- 
der-currents  of  sweetness,  so  suddenly  gushing 
forth,  so  suddenly  vanishing  again !  And  ex- 
quisite in  him  were  the  traits  of  that  sympathet- 
ic tact  which  the  world  calls  fine  breeding,  but 
which  comes  only  from  a  heart  at  once  chival- 
rous and  tender,  the  more  bewitching  in  Darrell 
from  their  contrast  with  a  manner  usually  cold, 
and  a  bearing  so  stamped  with  masculine,  self- 
willed,  haughty  power.  Thus  days  went  on  as 
if  Lionel  had  become  a  verj-  child  of  the  house. 
But  his  sojourn  was  in  truth  drawing  near  to  a 
close  not  less  abrupt  and  unex]iected  than  the 
turn  in  his  host's  humors  to  which  he  owed  the 
delay  of  his  departure. 

Oiie  bright  afternoon,  as  Darrell  was  standing 
at  the  window  of  his  private  study,  Fairthorn, 
who  had  crept  in  on  some  matter  of  business, 
looked  at  his  countenance  long  and  wistfully, 
and  then,  shambling  up  to  his  side,  put  one  hand 
on  his  shoulder  with  a  light,  timid  touch,  and, 
pointing  with  the  other  to  Lionel,  who  was  ly- 
ing on  the  grass  in  front  of  the  casement,  read- 
ing the  Faerie  Queen,  said,  "Why  do  you  take 
him  to  your  heart  if  he  does  not  comfort  it  ?" 

Darrell  winced,  and  answered  gently,  "  I  did 
not  know  you  were  in  the  room.  Poor  Fair- 
thorn  !  thank  you !" 

"  Thank  me  ! — what  for?" 
"  For  a  kind  thought.     So  then  you  like  the 
boy  ?" 

'"Mayn't  I  like  him?"  asked  Fairthorn,  look- 
ing rather  frightened ;  '-■  surely  you  do !" 

"  Yes,  I  like  him  much ;  I  am  trying  my  best 
to  love  him.  But,  but — "  Darrell  turned  quick- 
ly, and  the  portrait  of  his  father  over  the  man- 
tle-piece came  full  upon  his  sight — an  impress- 
ive, a  haunting  face — sweet  and  gentle,  yet  with 
the  high,  narrow  brow  and  arched  nostril  of 
pride,  with  i-estless,  melancholy  eyes,  and  an  ex- 
pression that  revealed  the  delicacy  of  intellect, 
but  not  its  power.  There  was  something  forlorn, 
yet  imposing,  in  the  whole  ethgy.  As  you  con- 
tinued to  look  at  the  countenance  the  mournful 
attraction  grew  upon  you.  Truly  a  touching  and 
a  most  lovable  aspect.  Darrell's  eyes  moistened. 
"Yes,  my  father,  it  is  so!"  he  said,  softly. 
"  All  my  sacrifices  were  in  vain.  The  race  is 
not  to  be  rebuilt !  No  grandchild  of  yours  will 
succeed  me — me,  the  last  of  the  old  line !  Fair- 
thorn, how  can  I  love  that  boy  ?  He  may  be  my 
heir,  and  in  his  veins  not  a  drop  of  my  father's 
blood !" 

"  But  he  has  the  blood  of  your  father's  ances- 
tors ;  and  why  must  you  think  of  him  as  your 
heir? — you,  who,  if  you  would  but  go  again  into 
the  world,  might  yet  find  a  fair  wi — " 

With  such  a  stamp  came  Darrell's  foot  upon 
the  floor  that  the  holy  and  conjugal  monosylla- 
ble dropping  from  Fairthorn's  lips  was  as  much 
cut  in  two  as  if  a  shark  had  snapped  it.  Un- 
speakably frightened,  the  poor  man  sidled  away, 
thrust  himself  behind  a  tall  reading-desk,  and, 
peering  aslant  from  that  covert,  whimpered  out, 


"Don't,  don't  now — don't  be  so  awful;  I  did 
not  mean  to  offend,  but  I'm  always  saying  some- 
thing I  did  not  mean  ;  and  really  you  look  so 
young  still  (coaxingly),  and,  and — " 

Darrell,  the  burst  of  rage  over,  had  sunk  upon 
a  chair,  his  face  bowed  over  his  hands,  and  his 
breast  heaving  as  if  with  suppressed  sobs. 

The  musician  forgot  his  fear ;  he  sjn-ang  for- 
ward, almost  upsetting  the  tall  desk;  he  flung 
himself  on  his  knees  at  Darrell's  feet,  and  ex- 
claimed, in  broken  words,  "  Master,  master,  for- 
give me!  Beast  that  I  was!  Do  look  up — do 
smile,  or  else  beat  me — kick  me." 

Darrell's  right  hand  slid  gently  from  his  face, 
and  fell  into  Fairthorn's  clasp. 

"  Ilush,  hush,"  muttered  the  man  of  granite  ; 
"one  moment,  and  it  will  be  over." 

One  moment?  That  might  be  but  a  figure  of 
speech  ;  yet  before  Lionel  had  finished  half  the 
canto  that  was  jtlunging  him  into  fairy-land, 
Darrell  was  standing  by  him  witli  his  ordinary, 
tranquil  mien  :  and  Fairthorn's  Hute  from  be- 
hind tlie  boughs  of  a  neighboring  lime-tree  was 
breathing  out  an  air  as  dulcet  as  if  careless 
Fauns  still  pijjcd  in  Arcady,  and  Grief  were  a 
far  dweller  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains, 
of  whom  shejiherds,  reclirting  under  summer 
leaves,  speak  as  we  speak  of  hydras  and  uni- 
corns, and  things  in  fal)le. 

On,  on  swelled  the  mellow,  mellow,  witching 
music ;  and  now  the  worn  man  with  his  secret 
sorrow,  and  the  boy  with  his  frank,  glad  laugh, 
are  passing  away,  side  by  side,  over  the  turf, 
with  its  starry  and  golden  wikl-flowers,  under 
the  boughs  in  yon  Druid  copse,  from  which  they 
start  the  ringdove — farther  and  farther,  still  side 
by  side,  now  out  of  sight,  as  if  the  dense  gi'een 
of  the  summer  had  closed  around  them  like 
waves.  But  still  the  flute  sounds  on,  and  still 
they  hear  it,  softer  and  softer,  as  they  go.  Hark ! 
do  you  not  hear  it — you  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Tlicre  are  certain  events  which  to  each  man's  life  arc 
as  comets  to  the  earth,  seemingly  strange  and  erratic 
poiteuts;  distinct  from  the  ordinarj'  lights  which  guide 
our  course  and  mark  our  seasons,  yet  true  to  their  own 
laws,  potent  in  their  own  influences.  I'hilosopliy  spec- 
ulates on  their  effects,  and  di?putes  upon  their  uses; 
men  who  do  not  philosophize  regard  them  as  special 
messengers  and  bodes  of  evil. 

TiiEY  came  out  of  the  little  park  into  a  by- 
lane  ;  a  vast  tract  of  common  land,  yellow  with 
furze,  and  undulated  with  swell  and  hollow 
spreading  in  front ;  to  their  right  the  dark  beech- 
woods,  still  beneath  the  weight  of  the  July  noon. 
Lionel  had  been  talking  about  the  Faerie  Queen, 
knight-errantry,  the  sweet,  impossible  dream- 
life  that,  safe  from  Time,  glides  by  bower  and 
hall,  through  magic  forests  and  by  witching 
caves,  in  the  world  of  poet-books.  And  Diu-rcU 
listened,  and  the  flute-notes  mingled  with  the 
atmosphere  faint  and  far  off,  like  voices  from 
that  world  itself. 

Out  then  they  came,  this  broad  waste  land 
before  them  ;  and  Lionel  said,  merrily: 

"  But  this  is  the  very  scene !  Here  the  young 
knight,  leaving  his  father's  hall,  would  have 
checked  his  destrier,  glancing  wistfully  now  over 
that  gieen  wild  which  seems  so  boundless,  now 


52 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


to  the  '  umbrageous  horror'  of  those  breathless  ! 
woodlands,  and  questioned  himself  •which  way  I 
to  take  for  adventure."  l 

"Yes,"  said  Darrell,   coming   out  from  his' 
long  reserve  on  all  that  concerned  his  past  life  | 

"  Yes,  and  the  gold  of  the   gorse-blossoms 

tempted  me  ;  and  I  took  the  waste  land."     He  ! 
paused  a  moment,  and  renewed  :   "  And  then,  j 
when  I  had  known  cities  and  men,  and  snatched  , 
romance  from  dull  matter-of-fact,  then  I  would 
have  done  as  civilization  does  with  romance  it- ; 
self — I  would  have  inclosed  the  waste  land  for 
mv  own  aggrandizement.    Look,"  he  continued, 
with  a  sweep  of  the  hand  round  the  width  of 
prospect,  "all  that  you  see  to  the  verge  of  the 
horizon,  some  fourteen  years  ago,  was  to  have  | 
been  thrown  into  the  petty  paddock  we  have  just  j 
quitted,  and  serve  as  park  round  the  house  I  was 
then  building.    Vanity  of  human  wishes  I   Wliat  I 
but  the  several  proportions  of  their  common  fol-  : 
ly  distinguishes  the  baffled  squire  from  the  ar- 
rested conqueror  ?      Man's  characteristic  cere- 
bral organ  must  certainly  be  acquisitiveness." 

"Was  it  his  organ  of  acquisitiveness  that! 
moved  Themistocles  to  boast  that  '  he  could 
make  a  small  state  great  ?'  "  I 

'•Well   remembered  —  ingeniously  quoted,"! 
returned  Darrell,  with  the  polite  bend  of  his  , 
statelv  head.     "  Yes,  I  suspect  that  the  coveting  | 
organ  had  much  to  do  with  the  boast.    To  build  j 
a  name  was  the  earliest  dream  of  Themistocles,  ' 
if  we  are  to  accept  the  anecdote  that  makes  him  j 
say,  '  The  trophies  of  jNIiltiades  would  not  suf- 
fer him  to  sleep.'     To  build  a  name,  or  to  cre- 
ate a  fortune,  are  but  varying  applications  of 
one  human  passion.     The  desire  of  something 
v,-e  have  not  is  the  first  of  our  childish  remem- 
brances ;  it  matters  not  what  form  it  takes,  what 
object  it  longs  for ;  still  it  is  to  acquire  ;  it  nev- 
er deserts  us  while  we  live." 

*'And  yet,  if  I  might,  I  should  like  to  ask, 
what  vou  now  desire  that  you  do  not  possess  I" 
'■  I-^nothing ;  but  I  spoke  of  the  living  '.  I  am 
dead.  Only,"  added  Darrell,  with  his  silvery 
laugh,  '-I say,  as  poor  Chesterfield  said  before 
me,  'it  is  a  secret — keep  it.'  " 

Lionel  made  no  reply ;  the  melancholy  of  the 
words  saddened  him ;  but  Darrell's  manner  re- 
pelled the  expression  of  sympathy  or  of  inter- 
est ;  and  the  boy  fell  into  conjecture — what  had 
killed  to  the  world  this  man's  intellectual  life  ? 
And  thus  silently  they  continued  to  wander 
on  till  the  sound  of  the  flute  had  long  been  lost 
to  their  ears.  Was  the  musician  playing  still  ? 
At  length  they  came  round  to  the  other  end 
of  Fawley  village,  and  Darrell  again  became 
animated. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  returning  to  the  subject 
of  talk  that  had  been  abruptly  suspended — 
"perhaps  the  love  of  power  is  at  the  origin  of 
each  restless  courtship  of  Fortune  ;  yet,  after  all, 
who  has  power  with  less  alloy  than  the  village 
thane?  With  so  little  effort,' so  little  thought, 
the  man  in  the  manor-house  can  make  men  in 
the  cottage  happier  here  below,  and  more  fit  for 
a  hereafter  yonder.  In  leaving  the  world  I  come 
from  contest  and  pilgrimage,  like  our  sires  the 
Crusaders,  to  reign  at  home." 

As  he  spoke  he  entered  one  of  the  cottages. 
An  old  paralytic  man  was  seated  by  the  tire, 
hot  though  the  July  sun  was  out  of  doors;  and 
his  wife,"of  the  same  age,  and  almost  as  help- 


less, was  reading  to  him  a  chapter  in  the  Old 
Testament — the  fifth  chapter  in  Genesis,  con- 
taining the  genealogy,  age,  and  death  of  the 
patriarchs  before  the  Flood.  How  the  faces  of 
the  couple  brightened  when  Darrell  entered. 
"Master  Guyl"  said  the  old  man,  tremulously 
rising.  The  world-weary  orator  and  lawyer 
was  still  Master  Guy  to  him. 

"Sit  down  Mathew,  and  let  me  read  you  a 
chapter."  Darrell  took  the  Holy  Book,  and  read 
the  Sermon  on  the  ilount.  Never  had  Lionel 
heard  any  thing  like  that  reading ;  the  feeling 
which  brought  out  the  depth  of  the  sense,  the 
tones,  sweeter  than  the  flute,  which  clothed  the 
divine  words  in  music.  As  Darrell  ceased,  some 
beauty  seemed  gone  from  the  day.  He  lingered 
a  few  minutes,  talking  kindly  and  familiarly, 
and  then  turned  into  another  cottage,  where  lay 
a  sick  woman.  He  listened  to  her  ailments, 
promised  to  send  her  something  to  do  her  good 
from  his  own  stores,  cheered  up  her  spirits,  and, 
leaving  her  happy,  turned  to  Lionel  with  a  glo- 
rious smile,  that  seemed  to  ask,  "And  is  there 
not  power  in  this  ?" 

But  it  was  the  sad  peculiarity  of  this  remark- 
able man,  that  all  his  moods  were  subject  to 
rapid  and  seemingly  unaccountable  variations. 
It  was  as  if  some  great  blow  had  fallen  on  the 
mainspring  of  his  organization,  and  left  its  orig- 
inal harmony  broken  up  into  fragments,  each 
impressive  in  itself,  but  running  one  into  the 
other  with  an  abrupt  discord,  as  a  harp  played 
upon  by  the  winds.  For,  after  this  evident  ef- 
fort at  self-consolation  or  self-support  in  sooth- 
ing or  strengthening  others,  suddenly  Darrell's 
head  fell  again  upon  his  breast,  and  he  walked 
on,  up  the  village  lane,  heeding  no  longer  either 
the  open  doors  of  expectant  cottagers,  or  the  sal- 
utation of  humble  passers-by.  "And  I  could 
have  been  so  happy  herel"  he  said  suddenly. 
"  Can  I  not  be  so  yet  ?  Ay,  perhaps,  when  I 
am  thoroughly  old — tied  to  the  world  but  by 
the  thread  of  an  hour.  Old  men  do  seem  hap- 
py ;  behind  them  all  memories  faint,  save  those 
of  childhood  and  sprightly  youth ;  before  them, 
the  narrow  ford,  and  the  sun  dawning  up  the 
clouds  on  the  other  shore.  'Tis  the  critical  de- 
scent into  age  in  which  man  is  surely  most  troub- 
led ;  griefs  gone,  still  rankling ;  nor,  strength  yet 
in  his  limbs,  passion  yet  in  his  heart,  recon- 
1  ciled  to  what  loom  nearest  in  the  prospect — the 
j  arm-chair  and  the  palsied  head.  Well !  life  is 
'  a  quaint  puzzle.  Bits  the  most  incongruous 
!  join  into  each  other,  and  the  scheme  thus  grad- 
;  ually  becomes  symmetrical  and  clear;  when,  lo! 
!  as  the  infant  claps  his  hands,  and  cries,  '  See, 
see  I  the  puzzle  is  made  out  I'  all  the  pieces  are 
swept  back  into  the  box — black  box  with  the 
gilded  nails.  Ho  I  Lionel,  look  up ;  there  is  our 
village  Church,  and  here,  close  at  my  right,  the 
Church-yard !" 

Now  while  Darrell  and  his  young  companion 
were  directing  their  gaze  to  the  right  of  the  vil- 
lage lane,  toward  the  small  gray  church — toward 
the  sacred  burial-ground  in  which,  here  and 
there  among  humbler  graves,  stood  the  monu- 
mental stone  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  some 
former  Darrell,  for  whose  remains  the  living  sod 
had  been  preferred  to  the  family  vault;  while 
both  slowly  nearcd  the  funeral  spot,  and  leaned, 
silent  and  musing,  over  the  rail  that  fenced 
it  from  the  animals  turned  to  graze  on  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


58 


sward  of  the  surrounding  frreen,  a  foot-traveler,  '  His  dress  bespoke  pretension  to  a  certain 
a  stran'^er  in  the  place,  loitered  on  the  thresh-  rank ;  but  its  component  parts  were  strangely 
old  of  The  small  wayside  inn,  about  fifty  yards  ill-assorted,  out  of  date,  and  out  of  repair: 
oft"  to  the  left  of  the  lane,  and  looked  hard  at  pearl-colored  trowsers,  with  silk  braids  down 
the  still  ficrures  of  the  two  kinsmen.  t  their   sides  ;   brodequins   to  match  —  Parisian 

Turnin<i  then  to  the  hostess,  who  was  stand-  fashion  three  years  back,  but  the  trowsers  shab- 
ino'  somewhat  within  the  threshold,  a  glass  of  ,  by,  the  braiding  discolored,  the  brodequins  in 
brandv-and-water  in  her  hand  (the  third  glass  holes.  The  coat — once  a  black  evening-dress 
that  stranger  had  called  for  during  his  half-  coat — of  a  cut  a  year  or  two  anterior  to  that  of 
hour's  rest  in  the  hostelr}-),  quoth  the  man —         the  trowsers  ;  satin  facings — cloth  napless,  satin 

"  The  taller  gentleman  yonder  is  surely  your  stained.  Over  all,  a  sort  of  summer  traveling- 
Squire,  is  it  not  ?  but  who  is  the  shorter  and  cloak,  or  rather  large  cape  of  a  waterproof  silk, 
younger  person  ?"  ]  once  the  extreme  mode  with  the  Lions  of  the 

The  landlady  put  forth  her  head.  j  Chaussee  d'Antin  whenever  they  ventured  to  rove 

"  Oh !  that  is  a  relation  of  the  Squire's  down  to  S^iss  cantons  or  German  spas  ;  but  which, 
on  a  visit.  Sir.  I  heard  coachman  say  that  the  from  a  certain  dainty  effeminacy  in  its  shape 
Squire's  taken  to  him  hugely  ;  and  they  do  think  and  texture,  required  the  minutest  elegance  in 
at  the  hall  that  the  young  gentleman  will  be  his  the  general  costume  of  its  wearer  as  well  as  the 
lieir."  '  i  cleanliest  purity  in  itself.     "Worn  by  this  trav- 

'*  Aha:— indeed — his  heir?  "What  is  the  lad's  el«r,  and  well-nigh  worn  out  too,  the  cape  be- 
name  ?  "What  relation  can  he  be  to  :Mr.  Dar-  •  came  a  finery,  mournful  as  a  tattered  pennon 
rell  V'  I  over  a  wreck. 

'•  I  don't  know  what  relation  exactly.  Sir ;  but  j  Yet  in  spite  of  this  dress,  however  nnbecom- 
he  is  one  of  the  Haughtons.  and  they're  been  ing,  shabby,  obsolete,  a  second  glance  could 
kin  to  the  Fawlev  folks  time  out  of  m'ind."  scarcely  fail  to  note  the  wearer  as  a  man  won- 

"  Haughton !  —  aha !  Thank  you,  ma'am.  |  derfully  well  shaped— tall,  slender  in  the  waist, 
Changclf  you  please."'  '  [long  of  limb,  but  with  a  girth  of  chest  that 

The  stranger  tossed  off  his  dram,  and  stretch-  j  showed  immense  power — one  of  those  rare  fig 


ed  his  hand  for  his  change 

"Beg  pardon,  Sir,  but  this  must  he  forring 
money,^'  said  the  landlady,  turning  a  five-franc 
piece  on  her  palm  with  suspicious  curiosity. 

"Foreign!  is  it  possible?"  The  stranger 
dived  again  into  his  pocket,  and  apparently  with 
some  ditficultT,-  hunted  out  half  a  crown. 

'•  Sixpence"  more,  if  you  please.  Sir ;  three 
brandies,  and  bread-and-cheese,  and  the  ale 
too,  Sir. 


ures  that  a  female  eye  would  admire  for  gi-ace 
— a  recruiting  sergeant  for  athletic  strength. 

Bat  still  the  man's  whole  bearing  and  aspect, 
even  apart  from  the  dismal  incongruities  of  his 
attire,  which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  beggared 
spendthrift,  marred  the  favorable  effect  that 
physical  comeliness  in  itself  produces.  Diffi- 
cult to  describe  how — difficult  to  say  why — but 
there  is  a  look  which  a  man  gets,  and  a  gait 
which  he  contracts,  when  the  rest  of  mankind 


How  stnpid  I  am !     I  thought  that  French  ^  cut  him ;  and  this  man  had  that  look  and  that 
coin  was  a  five-shilUns  piece.     I  fear  I  have  no    gait. 

English  monev  about^me  but  this  half-crown  ;  i  '"So,  so,"  muttered  the  stranger.  "That  boy 
and  I  can't  ask  you  to  trust  me,  as  you  don't  ^  his  heir  I — so,  so.  How  can  I  get  to  speak  to 
know  me."  '  ^^  ?     I^  bis  own  house  he  would  not  see  me : 

"  Oh,  Sir,  'tis  all  one  if  you  know  the  Squire,  it  must  be  as  now,  in  the  open  air ;  but  how 
You  mav  be  passing  this  wav  again."  j  catch  him  alone  ?  and  to  lurk  in  the  inn,  in  his 

'•  I  shall  not  forset  mv  debtVhen  I  do,  you  ''  own  village— perhaps  for  a  day — to  watch  an 
may  be  sure,"  said  the" stranger ;  and,  wit"h  a  occasion;  impossible!  Besides,  where  is  the 
nod,  he  walked  awav  in  the  same  direction  as  money  for  it  ?  Courage,  courage !"  He  quick- 
Darrell  and  Lionel  had  already  taken — through  ened  his  pace,  pushed  back  his  hat.  "  Courage ! 
a  turn-stile  bv  a  pubUc  path  that,  skirting  the  ;  Why  not  now  ?  Xow  or  never !" 
church-vard  and  the  neighboring  parsonage,  led  While  the  man  thus  mutteringly  soliloquized, 
along  a"corn-field  to  the  demesnes  of  Fawley.  !  Lionel  had  reached  the  gate  which  opened  into 
The  path  was  narrow,  the  corn  rising  on  eit"her  the  grounds  of  Fawley,  just  in  the  rear  of  the 
side,  so  that  two  persons  could  not  well  walk  little  lake.  Over  the  gate  ha  swung  himself 
abreast.  Lionel  was  some  paces  in  advance,  lightly,  and,  turning  back  to  Darrell,  cried, 
Darrell  walking  slow.  The  stranger  followed  '•  Here  is  the  doe  waiting  to  welcome  you !" 
at  a  distance  ;  once  or  twice  he  quickened  his  \  Just  as  Darrell,  scarcely  heeding  the  excla^ 
pace,  as  if  resolved  to  overtake  Darrell ;  then,  mation,  and  with  his  musing  eyes  on  the  ground, 
apparently,  his  mind  misgave  him,  and  he  again  approached  the  gate,  a  respectful  hand  opened  it 
fell  back.'  I  wide,  a  submissive  head  bowed  low,  a  voice  art- 

There  was  something  furtive  and  sinister  ificially  soft  faltered  forth  words,  broken  and  in- 
about  the  man.  Little  could  be  seen  of  his  [  distinct,  but  of  which  those  most  audible  were 
face,  for  he  wore  a  large  hat  of  foreign  make,  '  — '-Pardon  me — something  to  communicate — 
slouched  deep  over  his  brow,  and  his  lips  and  !  important — hear  me." 

jaw  were  concealed  by  a  dark  and  full  mustache  j  Darrell  started— just  as  the  traveler  almost 
and  beard.  As  much  of  the  general  outline  of  i  touched  him  —  started  —  recoiled,  as  one  on 
the  countenance  as  remained  distinguishable  ;  whose  path  rises  a  wild  beast.  His  bended  head 
was,  nevertheless,  decidedly  handsQme ;  but  a  became  erect,  haughty,  indignant,  defying ;  but 
complexion  naturally  rich  in  color,  seemed  to  j  his  cheek  was  pale,  and  his  lip  quivered.  "  Yon 
have  gained  the  heated  look  which  comes  with  here !  You  in  England — at  Fawley  !  You  pre- 
the  earlier  habits  of  intemperance,  before  it  sume  to  accost  me !  You,  Sir,  you — " 
fades  into  the  leaden  hues  of  the  later.  I     Lionel  just  caught  the  sound  of  the  voice  as 


oi 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WLTR  IT  ? 


the  doe  had  come  timidly  up  to  him.  He  turned 
round  sharply,  and  beheld  Darrell's  stern,  im- 
perious countenance,  on  which,  stern  and  im- 
perious though  it  was,  a  hasty  glance  could  dis- 
cover, at  once,  a  surprise,  that  almost  bordered 
upon  fear.  Of  the  stranger  still  holding  the  gate 
he  saw  but  the  back,  and  his  voice  he  did  not 
hear,  though  by  the  man's  gesture  he  was  evi- 
dently replying.  Lionel  paused  a  moment  irres- 
olute ;  but  as  the  man  continued  to  speak,  he 
saw  Darrell's  face  grow  paler  and  paler,  and  in 
the  impulse  of  a  vague  alarm  he  hastened  to- 
ward him  ;  but  just  within  three  feet  of  the  spot, 
Darrell  arrested  his  steps. 

"  Go  home,  Lionel ;  this  person  would  speak 
to  me  in  private."  Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he 
said  to  the  stranger,  "Close  the  gate.  Sir;  you 
are  standing  upon  the  land  of  my  fathers.  If 
you  would  speak  with  me,  this  way  ;"  and  brush- 
ing through  the  corn,  Darrell  strode  toward  a 
patch  of  waste  land  that  adjoined  the  field  :  the 
man  followed  him,  and  both  passed  from  Lio- 
nel's eyes.  The  doe  had  come  to  the  gate  to 
greet  her  master ;  she  now  rested  her  nostrils 
on  the  bar,  with  a  look  disappointed  and  plaint- 
ive. 

"Come,"  said  Lionel,  "come."  The  doe 
would  not  stir. 

So  the  boy  walked  on  alone,  not  much  occu- 
pied with  what  had  just  passed.  ''Doubtless," 
thought  he,  "  some  person  in  the  neighborhood 
upon  country  business." 

He  skirted  the  lake,  and  seated  himself  on  a 
garden  bench  near  the  hotise.  AVhat  did  he 
there  think  of? — who  knows  ?  Perhaps  of  the 
Great  World  ;  perhaps  of  little  Sophy  I  Time 
fled  on  :  the  sun  was  receding  in  the  west,  when 
Darrell  hurried  past  him  without  speaking,  and 
entered  the  house. 

The  host  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  nor  all 
that  evening.  Mr.  Mills  made  an  excuse — 3Ir. 
Darrell  did  not  feel  very  well. 

Fairthorn  had  Lionel  all  to  himself,  and  hav- 
ing within  the  last  few  days  reindulged  in  open 
cordiality  to  the  young  guest,  he  was  especially 
communicative  that  evening.  He  talked  much 
on  Darrell,  and  with  all  the  affection  that,  in 
spite  of  his  fear,  the  poor  flute-player  felt  for 
his  ungracious  patron.  He  told  many  anecdotes 
of  the  stern  man's  tender  kindness  to  all  tliat 
came  within  his  sphere.  He  told  also  anecdotes 
more  striking  of  the  kind  man's  sternness  where 
some  obstinate  prejudice,  some  ruling  passion, 
made  him  "granite." 

"Lord,  my  dear  young  Sir,"  said  Fairthorn, 
"be  his  most  bitter  open  enemy,  and  fall  down 
in  the  mire,  the  first  hand  to  help  you  would  be 
Guy  Darrell's  ;  but  be  his  professed  friend,  and 
betray  him  to  the  worth  of  a  straw,  and  never 
try  to  see  his  face  again  if  you  are  wise — the 
most  forgiving  and  the  least  forgiving  of  human 
beings.     But — " 

The  study  door  noiselessly  opened,  and  Dar- 
rell's voice  called  out, 

"Fah-thorn,  let  me  speak  with  you." 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

Every  street  has  two  sides,  the  shady  side  and  the  sunny. 
■SVhen  two  men  shake  hands  and  part,  mark  which  of 


the  two  takes  the  sunny  side;  he  will  be  the  younger 
man  of  the  two. 

The  next  morning,  neither  Darrell  nor  Fair- 
thorn  appeared  at  breakfast ;  but  as  soon  as 
Lionel  had  concluded  that  meal,  Mr.  Mills  in- 
formed him,  with  customary  politeness,  that  Mr. 
Darrell  wished  to  speak  with  him  in  the  study. 
Study,  across  the  threshold  of  which  Lionel  had 
never  yet  set  footstep  !  He  entered  it  now  with 
a  sentiment  of  mingled  curiosity  and  awe.  No- 
thing in  it  remarkable,  save  the  portrait  of  the 
host's  father  over  the  mantle-piece.  Books 
strewed  tables,  chairs,  and  floors  in  the  disor- 
der loved  by  habitual  students.  Near  the  win- 
dow Avas  a  glass  bowl  containing  gold  fish,  and 
close  by.  in  its  cage,  a  singing-bird.  Darrell 
might  exist  without  companionship  in  the  hu- 
man species,  but  not  without  something  which 
he  protected  and  cherished  —  a  bird  —  even  a 
fish. 

DaiTell  looked  really  ill ;  his  keen  eye  was 
almost  dim,  and  the  lines  in  his  face  seemed 
deeper.  But  he  spoke  with  his  visual  calm  pas- 
sionless melody  of  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Lionel's  really 
anxious  inquiry ;  "  I  am  ill.  Idle  persons  like 
me  give  way  to  illness.  When  I  was  a  busy 
man,  I  never  did ;  and  then  illness  gave  way  to 
me.  My  general  plans  are  thus,  if  not  actually 
altered,  at  least  huiried  to  their  consummation 
sooner  than  I  expected.  Before  you  came  here, 
I  told  you  to  come  soon,  or  you  might  not  find 
me.  I  meant  to  go  abroad  this  summer ;  I  shall 
now  start  at  once.  I  need  the  change  of  scene 
and  air.     You  will  return  to  London  to-day." 

"  To-day  I     You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?" 

"Angry!  boy  and  cousin — no!"  resumed  Dar- 
rell, in  a  tone  of  unusual  tenderness.  "Angry 
— fie  I  But  since  the  parting  must  be,  'tis  well 
to  abridge  the  pain  of  long  farewells.  You  must 
■nish,  too,  to  see  your  mother,  and  thank  her  for 
rearing  you  up  so  that  you  may  step  from  pov- 
erty into  ease  with  a  head  erect.  You  will  give 
to  Mrs.  Haughton  this  letter :  for  yotirself,  your 
inclinations  seem  to  tend  toward  the  army.  But 
before  you  decide  on  that  career,  I  should  like 
you  to  see  something  more  of  the  world.  Call 
to-morrow  on  Colonel  ]Morley,  in  Curzon  Street : 
this  is  his  address.  He  will  receive  by  to-day's 
post  a  note  from  me,  requesting  him  to  advise 
you.  Follow  his  counsels  in  what  belongs  to  the 
world.  He  is  a  man  of  the  world — a  distant 
connection  of  mine — who  will  be  kind  to  you 
for  my  sake.  Is  there  more  to  say?  Yes.  It 
seems  an  ungracious  speech  ;  but  I  should  speak 
it.  Consider  yourself  sure  from  me  of  an  inde- 
pendent income.  Never  let  idle  sycophants  lead 
you  into  extravagance,  by  telling  you  that  you 
will  have  more.  But  indulge  not  the  expecta- 
tion, however  plausible,  that  you  wUl  be  my 
heir." 

"Mr.  Darrell— oh.  Sir—" 

"  Hush — the  expectation  would  be  reasonable ; 
but  I  am  a  strange  being.  I  might  marry  again 
— have  heirs  of  my  own.  Eh,  Sir — why  not?" 
Darrell  spoke  these  last  words  almost  fiercely, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Lionel  as  he  repeated — 
"why  not?"  But  seeing  that  the  boy's  face 
evinced  no  surprise,  the  expression  of  his  own 
relaxed,  and  he  continued  calmly — "Eno'; 
what  I  have  thus  rudely  said  was  kindly  meant. 
It  is  a  treason  to  a  young  man  to  let  him  count 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITU  IT? 


55 


on  a  fortane  which  at  hist  is  left  away  from  him. 
Now,  Lionel,  go ;  enjoy  your  spring  of  life  I  Go, 
hopeful  and  light-hearted.  If  sorrow  reach  you, 
battle  with  it ;  if  error  mislead  you,  come  fear- 
lessly to  me  for  counsel.  Why,  boy — what  is 
this — tears  ?     Tut,  tut." 

'•It  is  your  goodness,"  faltered  Lionel.  "I 
can  not  help  it.  And  is  there  nothing  I  can  do 
for  you  in  return?" 

"  Yes,  much.  Keep  your  name  free  from 
stain,  and  your  heart  open  to  such  noble  emo- 
tions as  awaken  leai-s  like  those.  Ah,  by-the- 
by,  I  lieard  from  my  lawyer  to-day  about  your 
poor  little  protigi.  Not  found  yet,  but  he  seems 
sangniue  of  quick  success.  You  shall  know  the 
moment  I  hear  more." 

"You  will  write  to  me  then.  Sir,  and  I  may 
write  to  you?" 

"  As  ot'tcn  as  you  please.  Always  direct  to 
me  here." 

'•Shall  you  be  long  abroad?" 

Darrells  brows  met.  "I  don't  know,"  said 
he,  curtly.     ••Ailieu." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

Lionel  looked  at  him  with  wistful  yearning. 


filial  affection,  through  his  swimming  eves. 
'■God  bless  you,  Sir,"  he  murmured  simply, 
and  passed  away. 

"  That  blessing  should  have  come  from  me !" 
said  Darrcll  to  himself,  as  he  turned  back,  and 
stood  on  his  solitary  hearth.  "But  they  on 
whose  heads  I  once  poured  a  blessing,  where 
are  they — where  ?  And  that  man's  taJe,  reviv- 
ing the  audacious  fable  which  the  other,  and  I 
verily  believe  the  less  guilty  knave  of  the  two, 
sought  to  palm  on  me  years  ago !  Stop ;  let  me 
weigh  well  what  he  said.  If  it  were  true  !  if  it 
were  true  !     Oh,  shame,  shame  I" 

Folding  his  arms  tightly  on  his  breast,  Dar- 
rell  paced  the  room  with  slow  measured  strides, 
pondering  deeply.  He  was,  indeed,  seeking  to 
suppress  feeling,  and  to  exercise  only  judgment; 
and  his  reasoning  process  seemed  at  length  fully 
to  satisfy  him,  for  his  countenance  gradually 
cleared,  and  a  triumphant  smile  passed  across 
it.  "A  lie — certainly  a  palpable  and  gross  lie; 
lie  it  must  and  shall  be.  Never  will  1  accept  it 
as  truth.  Father"  (looking  full  at  the  portrait 
over  the  mantle-shelf),  "father,  fear  not — never 
— never!" 


BOOK    III, 


CHAPTER  I. 

Certes,  "Ihe  Lizard  is  a  shy  and  timorous  creature.  He 
runs  into  chinks  and  crannies  if  you  come  too  near  to 
him,  and  sheds  his  very  tail  for  fear,  if  you  catch  it  by 
the  tip.  He  has  not  his  being  in  good  society — no  one 
cages  him,  no  one  pets.  He  is  an  idle  vagrant.  But 
■when  he  steals  thi-ough  the  green  herbage,  and  basks 
unmolested  in  the  sun,  he  crowds  perhaps  as  much  en- 
joyment into  one  summer  hour  as  a  parrot,  however 
pampered  and  erudite,  spreads  over  a  whole  drawing- 
room  life  spent  in  saying,  "  How  d'ye  do ';"  and  "  Pretty 
PoU." 

On"  that  dull  and  sombre  summer  morning  in 
which  the  grandfather  and  grandchild  departed 
from  the  friendly  roof  of  Mr.  Merle,  very  dull 
and  very  sombre  were  the  thoughts  of  little 
Sophy.  Slie  walked  slowly  behind  the  gray  crip- 
ple who  had  need  to  lean  so  heavily  on  his  stall', 
and  her  eye  had  not  even  a  smile  for  the  golden 
buttercups  that  glittered  on  dewy  meads  along- 
side the  barren  road. 

Thus  had  they  proceeded  apart  and  silent  till 
they  had  passed  the  second  milestone.  There, 
Waife,  rousing  from  his  own  reveries,  which 
were  perhaps  yet  more  dreary  than  those  of  the 
dejected  child,  halted  abruptly,  passed  his  hand 
once  or  twice  rapidly  over  his  forehead,  and 
turning  round  to  Sophy,  looked  into  her  face 
with  great  kindness  as  she  came  slowly  to  his 
side. 

"You  are  sad,  little  one?"  said  he. 

"Very  sad,  Grandy." 

"  And  displeased  with  me  ?  Yes,  displeased 
that  I  have  taken  you  suddenly  away  from  the 
pretty  young  gentleman  who  was  so  kind  to  you, 
without  encouraging  the  chance  that  you  were 
to  meet  with  him  again." 

"It  was  not  like  you,  Grandy,"  answered 
Sophy;  and  her  under-lip  shghtly  pouted,  while 
the  big  tears  swelled  to  her  eye. 


"True,"  said  the  vagabond;  "any  thing  re- 
sembling common-sense  is  not  like  me.  But 
don't  you  think  that  I  did  what  I  felt  was  best 
for  you  ?  Must  I  not  have  some  good  cause  for 
it,  whenever  I  have  the  heart  deliberately  to  vex 
you  ?" 

Sophy  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it,  but  she 
could  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  for  she  felt  that 
at  such  effort   she  would  have  burst  out  into 
hearty  crying.     Then  Waife  proceeded  to  utter 
many  of  those  wise  sayings,  old  as  the  hills,  and 
as  high  above  our  sorrows  as  hills  are  from  the 
valley  in  which  we  walk.     He  said  how  foolish 
it  was  to  unsettle  the  mind  by  preposterous  fan- 
cies and  impossible  hopes.     The  pretty  young 
gentleman  could  never  be  any  thing  to  her,  nor 
she  to  the  pretty  young  gentleman.     It  might 
be  very  well  for  the  pretty  young  gentleman  to 
promise  to  con'espond  with  her,  but  as  soon  as 
he  returned  to  his  friends  he  would  have  other 
things  to  think  of,  and  she  would  soon  be  for- 
gotten; while  she,  on  the   contrary,  would  be 
thinking  of  him,  and  the  Thames,  and  the  but- 
terflies, and  find  hard  life  still  more  irksome. 
Of  all  this,  and  much  more,  in  the  general  way 
of  consolers  who  set  out  on  the  principle  that 
grief  is  a  matter  of  logic,  did  Gentleman  Waife 
deliver  himself  with    a  vigor   of  ratiocination 
which  admitted  of  no  re])ly,  and  conveyed  not 
a  particle  of  comfort.     And  feeling  this,  that 
great  Actor — not  that  he  was  acting  then — sud- 
denly stopped,  clasped  the  child  in  his  arms, 
j  and  murmured  in  broken   accents — "But  if  I 
I  see  you  thus  cast  down,  I  shall  have  no  strength 
I  left  to  hobble  on  through  the  world ;  and  the 
I  sooner  I  lie  down,  and  the  dust  is  shoveled  over 
'  me,  why,  the  better  for  you ;  for  it  seems  that 
1  Heaven  sends  you  friends,  and  I  tear  you  from 
I  them." 


',6 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


And  then  Sophy  fairly  gave  way  to  her  sobs  ; 
she  twined  her  little  arms  round  the  old  man's 
neck  convulsively,  kissed  his  rough  face  with 
implorin.c;  pathetic  fondness,  and  forced  out 
through  her  tears,  "Don't  talk  so!  I've  been 
ungrateful  and  wicked.  I  don't  care  for  any 
one  but  my  own  dear,  dear  Grandy." 

After  this  little  scene  they  both  composed 
themselves,  and  felt  much  lighter  of  heart. 
They  pursued  their  journey — no  longer  apart, 
but  side  by  side,  and  the  old  man  leaning,  though 
very  lightly,  on  the  child's  arm.  But  there  was 
no  immediate  reaction  from  gloom  to  gayety. 
Waife  began  talking  in  softened  under-tones, 
and  vaguely,  of  his  own  past  afflictions;  and 
partial  as  was  the  reference,  how  vast  did  the 
old  man's  sorrows  seem  beside  the  child's  re- 
grets ;  and  yet  he  commented  on  them  as  if 
rather  in  pitying  her  state  than  grie%-ing  for  his 
own. 

"Ah !  at  your  age,  my  darling,  I  had  not  your 
troubles  and  hardships.  I  had  not  to  trudge  these 
dusty  roads  on  foot  with  a  broken-down,  good- 
for-nothing  scatterling.  I  trod  rich  carpets,  and 
slept  under  silken  curtains.  I  took  the  air  in 
gay  carriages — I  such  a  scape-grace — and  you, 
little  child — you  so  good !  All  gone  I  all  melt- 
ed away  from  me,  and  not  able  now  to  be  sure 
that  you  will  have  a  crust  of  bread  this  day 
week." 

"Oh,  yes  I  I  shall  have  bread,  and  you,  too, 
Grandy !"  cried  Sophy,  with  cheerful  voice.  "It 
was  you  who  taught  me  to  pray  to  God,  and  said 
that  in  all  your  troubles  God  had  been  good  to 
you;  and  He  has  been  so  good  to  me  since  I 
prayed  to  Him ;  for  I  have  no  dreadful  jNIrs. 
Crane  to  beat  me  now,  and  say  things  more 
hard  to  bear  than  beating — and  you  have  taken 
me  to  youi-self.  How  I  prayed  for  that !  And 
I  take  care  of  you,  too,  Grandy,  don't  I?  I 
prayed  for  that,  too;  and  as  to  carriages,"  add- 
ed Sophy,  with  superb  air,  "I  don't  care  if  I  am 
never  in  a  carriage  as  long  as  I  live ;  and  you 
know  I  have  been  in  a  van,  Mhicli  is  bigger  than 
a  carriage,  and  I  didn't  like  that  at  all.  But  how 
came  people  to  behave  so  ill  to  you,  Grandy?" 

"  I  never  said  people  behaved  ill  to  me,  So- 
phy." 

"  Did  not  they  take  away  the  carpets  and  silk 
curtains,  and  all  the  fine  things  you  had  as  a 
little  boy  ?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  replied  Waife,  with 
a  puzzled  look,  "  that  people  actually  took  them 
away — but  they  melted  away.  However,  I  had 
much  still  to  be  thankful  for — I  was  so  strong, 
and  had  such  high  spirits,  Sophy,  and  found 
people  not  beha\-ing  ill  to  me — quite  the  con- 
trarj- — so  kind.  I  found  no  Crane  (she  monster) 
as  you  did,  ray  little  angel.  Suoh  prospects  be- 
fore me,  if  I  had  walked  straight  toward  them ! 
But  I  followed  my  own  fancy,  which  led  me 
zigzag ;  and  now  that  I  would  stray  back  into 
the  high-road,  you  see  before  you  a'man  whom 
a  Justice  of  the  Peace  could  send  to  the  tread- 
mill for  presuming  to  live  without  a  liveli- 
hood." 

Sophy.  "  Xot  without  a  livelihood  ?  the  what 
did  you  call  it  I  independent  income — that  is, 
the  Three  Pounds,  Grandy  ?" 

Waife  (admiringly).  "  Sensible  child !  That 
is  true.  Yes,  Heaven  is  very  good  to  me  still. 
Ah !  what  signifies  fortune  ?     How  happy  I  was 


with  my  dear  Lizzy,  and  yet  no  two  persons 
could  live  more  from  hand  to  mouth." 

SoPHT  (rather  jealously).   "Lizzy?" 

Waife  (with  moistened  eyes,  and  looking 
down).  "My  wife.  She  was  only  spared  to  me 
two  years — such  sunny  years  I  And  how  grate- 
ful I  ought  to  be  that  she  did  not  live  longer. 
She  was  saved — such — such — such  shame  and 
miser}- 1"     A  long  pause. 

Waife  resumed,  with  a  rush  from  memory,  as 
if  plucking  himself  from  the  claws  of  a  harpy — 
"What's  the  good  of  looking  back!  A  man's 
gone  self  is  a  dead  thing.  It  is  not  I — now  tramp- 
ing this  road,  with  you  to  lean  upon — whom  I 
see  when  I  would  turn  to  look  behind  on  that 
which  I  once  was — it  is  another  being,  defunct 
and  buried ;  and  when  I  say  to  myself,  '  That 
being  did  so  and  so,'  it  is  like  reading  an  epi- 
taph on  a  tombstone.  So,  at  last,  solitary  and 
hopeless,  I  came  back  to  my  own  land;  and  I 
found  you — a  blessing  greater  than  I  had  ever 
dared  to  count  on.  And  how  was  I  to  maintain 
you,  and  take  you  from  that  long-nosed  alliga- 
tor called  Crane,  and  put  you  in  womanly,  gen- 
tle hands,  for  I  never  thought  then  of  subjecting 
you  to  all  you  have  since  undergone  with  me. 
I  who  did  not  know  one  useful  thing  in  life  by 
which  a  man  can  turn  a  penny.  And  then,  as 
I  was  all  alone  in  a  village  ale-house,  on  my 
way  back  from — it  does  not  signify  from  what, 
or  from  whence,  but  I  was  disappointed  and  de- 
spairing— Providence  mercifully  threw  in  my 
way — ^Ir.  Rugge — and  ordained  me  to  be  of 
great  service  to  that  ruffian — and  that  ruffian 
of  great  use  to  me." 

Sophy.  "Ah!  how  was  that?" 

Waife.  "It  was  Fair-time  in  the  village  where- 
in I  stopped,  and  Rugge's  principal  actor  was 
taken  off  by  delirium  tremens,  which  is  Latin  for 
a  disease  common  to  men  who  eat  little  and 
drink  much.  Rugge  came  into  the  ale-house, 
bemoaning  his  loss.  A  bright  thought  struck 
me.  Once  in  my  day  I  had  been  used  to  act- 
ing. I  offered  to  tr}-  my  chance  on  Mr.  Rugge's 
stage  ;  he  caught  at  me — I  at  him.  I  succeed- 
ed ;  we  came  to  terms,  and  my  little  Sophy  was 
thus  taken  from  that  ringleted  crocodile,  and 
placed  with  Christian  females  who  wore  caps 
and  read  their  Bible.  Is  not  Heaven  good  to 
us,  Sophy — and  to  me,  too — me,  such  a  scamp?" 

"  And  you  did  all  that — suffered  all  that  for 
me?" 

"Suffered — but  I  liked  it.  And,  besides,  I 
must  have  done  something ;  and  there  were  rea- 
sons— in  short,  I  was  quite  happy — no,  not  act- 
ually happy,  but  comfortable  and  merry.  Prov- 
idence gives  thick  hides  to  animals  that  must 
exist  in  cold  climates  ;  and  to  the  man  whom  it 
reserves  for  sorrow.  Providence  gives  a  coarse, 
jovial  temper.  Then,  when  by  a  mercy  I  was 
saved  from  what  I  most  disliked  and  di'caded, 
and  never  would  have  thought  of  but  that  I  fan- 
cied it  might  be  a  help  to  you — I  mean  the  Lon- 
don stage — and  had  that  bad  accident  on  the 
railway,  how  did  it  end  ?  Oh !  in  saving  you 
(and  Waife  closed  his  eyes  and  shuddered)— in 
saving  your  destiny  from  what  might  be  much 
worse  for  you,  body  and  soul,  than  the  worst 
I  that  has  happened  to  you  with  me.  And  so  we 
have  been  thrown  together;  and  so  you  have 
supported  me ;  and  so,  when  we  could  exist 
I  without  Mr.  Rugge,  Providence  got  rid  of  him 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


57 


for  us.  And  so  we  are  now  walking  along  the 
high-road  ;  and  through  yonder  trees  you  can 
catch  a  peep  of  the  roof  under  which  we  are 
about  to  rest  for  a  while  ;  and  there  you  will 
learn  what  I  have  done  with  the  Tliree  Pounds !" 

"  It  is  not  the  Spotted  Boy,  G randy  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Waife,  sighing  ;  "  the  Spotted  Boy 
is  a  handsome  income ;  but  let  us  only  trust  in 
Providence,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  our  new 
acquisition  proved  a  monstrous — " 

"Monstrous!" 

"  Piece  of  good  fortune." 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  Inrestmeut  revealed. 

Gentleman  Waife  passed  through  a  turnstile, 
down  a  narrow  lane,  and  reached  a  solitary 
cottage.  He  knocked  at  the  door  ;  an  old  peas- 
ant woman  opened  it,  and  dropped  him  a  civil 
courtesy.  "  Indeed,  Sir,  I  am  glad  you  are 
come.     I'se  most  afeard  lie  be  dead." 

"  Dead !"  exclaimed  Waife.  '•  Oh,  Sophy,  if 
he  should  be  dead !" 

"Who?" 

Waife  did  not  heed  the  question.  "What 
makes  you  think  him  dead  ?"  said  he,  fumbling 
in  his  pockets,  from  which  he  at  last  produced 
a  key.  "You  have  not  been  disobeying  my  strict 
orders,  and  tampering  with  the  door  ?" 

"Lor'  love  ye,  no.  Sir.  But  he  made  such  a 
noise  a  fust — awful  I  And  now  he's  as  still  as 
a  cor])se.  And  I  did  peep  through  the  keyhole, 
and  he  was  stretched  stark." 

"Hunger,  perhaps,"  said  the  Comedian  ;  "  'tis 
his  way  when  he  has  been  kept  fasting  much 
over  his  usual  hours.  Follow  me,  Sophy."  He 
put  aside  the  woman,  entered  the  sanded  kitch- 
en, ascended  a  stair  that  led  from  it ;  and  Sophy 
following,  stopped  at  a  door  and  listened :  not 
a  sound^  Timidly  he  unlocked  the  portals  and 
crept  in,  when,  suddenly,  such  a  rush — such  a 
spring,  and  a  mass  of  something  vehement  yet 
soft,  dingy  yet  whitish,  whirled  past  the  Actor, 
and  came  pounce  against  Sophy,  who  therewith 
uttered  a  shriek.  "  Stop  him,  stop  him,  for 
Heaven's  sake  I"  cried  Waife.  "  Shut  the  door 
below — seize  him  1"  Down  stairs,  however,  went 
the  mass,  and  down  stairs  after  it  hobbled  Waife, 
returning  in  a  few  moments  with  the  recaptured 
and  mysterious  fugitive.  "There,"  he  cried, 
triumphantly,  to  Sophy,  who,  standing  against 
the  wall  with  her  face  buried  in  her  frock,  long 
refused  to  look  up — "  there — tame  as  a  lamb, 
and  knows  me.  See" — he  seated  himself  on  the 
floor,  and  Sophy,  hesitatingly  opening  her  eyes, 
beheld  gravely  gazing  at  her  from  under  a  pro- 
fusion of  shaggy  locks  an  enormous — 


Poodle ! 


Cn.cVPTER  m. 

UC-nouement. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Zoology  in  connection  with  History. 
"  Walk  to  that  young  lady,  Sir — walk,  I  say." 
The  poodle  slowly  rose  on  his  hind-legs,  and, 


with  an  aspect  inexpressibly  solemn,  advanced 
toward  Sophy,  who  hastily  receded  into  the 
room  in  which  the  creature  had  been  confined. 

"  Make  a  bow — no — a  bou;  Sir  ;  that  is  right : 
you  can  shake  hands  another  time.  Run  down, 
Sophy,  and  ask  for  his  dinner." 

"  Yes — that  I  will ;"  and  Sophy  flew  down 
the  stairs. 

The  dog,  still  on  his  hind-legs,  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  dignified,  but  evidently  ex- 
pectant. 

"  That  will  do ;  lie  down  and  die.  Die  this 
moment,  Sir."  The  dog  stretched  himself  out, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  to  all  a]»])earauce  gave  up 
the  ghost.  "  A  most  splendid  investment,"  said 
Waife,  with  enthusiasm ;  "  and,  upon  the  whole, 
dog-cheap.  Ho !  i/ou  ai-e  not  to  bring  up  his 
dinner ;  it  is  not  you  who  are  to  make  friends 
with  the  dog  ;  it  is  my  little  girl ;  send  her  up  ; 
Sophy,  Sophy." 

"  She  be  fritted.  Sir,"  said  the  woman,  hold- 
ing a  plate  of  canine  comestibles ;  "  but  lauk, 
Sir  ;  ben't  he  really  dead  ?" 

"Sophy,  Sophy." 

"Please  let  me  stay  here,  Grandy,"  said 
Sophy's  voice  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Nonsense  !  it  is  sixteen  hours  since  he  has 
had  a  morsel  to  eat.  And  he  will  never  bite 
the  hand  that  feeds  him  now.  Come  up,  I  say." 
Sophy  slowly  reascended,  and  Waife,  summon- 
ing the  poodle  to  life,  insisted  ujion  the  child's 
feeding  him.  And  indeed,  when  that  act  of 
charity  was  performed,  the  dog  evinced  his 
gratitude  by  a  series  of  unsophisticated  bounds 
and  waggings  of  the  tail,  which  gradually  re- 
moved Sophy's  ajiprehensions,  and  laid  the 
foundation  for  that  intimate  friendship,  which 
is  the  natural  relation  between  child  and  dog. 

"And  how  did  3-ou  come  by  him?"  asked 
Sophy;    "and  is  this  really  the — the  in-\'est- 

MENT  ?" 

"  Shut  the  door  carefully,  but  see  first  that 
the  woman  is  not  listening.  Lie  down,  Sir, 
there,  at  the  feet  of  the  young  lady.  Good  dog. 
How  did  I  come  by  him  ?  I  will  tell  you.  Tlie 
first  day  we  arrived  at  the  village  which  we  have 
just  left,  I  went  into  the  tobacconist's.  While  I 
was  buying  my  ounce  of  canaster,  that  dog  en- 
tered the  shop.  In  his  mouth  was  a  sixpence 
wrapped  in  paper.  He  lifted  himself  on  his 
hind-legs,  and  laid  his  missive  on  the  counter. 
The  shopwoman — you  know  her,  INIrs.  Traill — 
unfolded  the  pajier  and  read  the  order.  '  Clev- 
er dog  that,  Sir.'  said  she.  '  To  fetch  and  car- 
ry ?'  said  I,  iudiftcrently.  '  More  than  that.  Sir  ; 
you  shall  see.  The  order  is  for  two-penn'orth 
"of  snuff.  The  dog  knows  he  is  to  take  back 
fouqience.  I  will  give  him  a  penny  short.'  So 
she  took  the  sixpence  and  gave  the  dog  three- 
pence out  of  it.  The  dog  shook  his  head  and 
looked  gravely  into  her  face.  '  That's  all  you'll 
get,'  said  she.  The  dog  shook  his  head  again, 
and  tapped  his  paw  once  on  the  counter,  as  much 
as  to  sav,  '  I  am  not  to  be  done — a  penny  more, 
if  vou  please.'  '  If  you  won't  take  that,  you  shall 
have  nothing,'  said  Mrs.  Traill,  and  she  took 
back  the  threepence." 

"  Dear !  and  what  did  the  dog  do  then— snarl 
or  bite  ?" 

"Not  so;  he  knew  he  was  in  his  rights,  and 
did  not  lower  himself  by  showing  bad  temper. 
The  dog   looked  quietly  round,  saw  a  basket 


58 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


which  contained  t^vo  or  three  pounds  of  candles 
lying  in  a  corner  for  the  shopboy  to  take  to  some 
customer  ;  took  up  the  basket  in  his  mouth,  and 
turned  tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Tit  for  tat 
then.'  He  understood,  you  see,  what  is  called 
the  '  law  of  reprisals.'  '  Come  back  this  mo- 
ment,' cried  Mrs.  Traill.  The  dog  walked  out 
of  the  shop ;  then  she  ran  after  him,  and  counted 
the  fourpence  before  him,  on  which  he  dropped 
the  basket,  picked  up  the  right  change,  and  went 
off  demurely.  '  To  whom  does  that  poodle  be- 
long r"  said  I.  '  To  a  poor  drunken  man,'  said 
Mrs.  Traill ;  '  I  wish  it  was  in  better  hands.' 
'  So  do  I,  ma'am,'  answered  I.  '  Did  he  teach 
it  ?'  '  Xo,  it  was  taught  by  his  brother,  who  was 
an  old  soldier,  and  died  in  his  house  two  weeks 
ago.  It  knows  a  great  many  tricks,  and  is  quite 
young.  It  might  make  a  fortune  as  a  show, 
Sir.'  So  I  was  thinking.  I  inquired  the  own- 
er's address,  called  on  him,  and  found  him  dis- 
posed to  sell  the  dog.  But  he  asked  £3,  a  sum 
that  seemed  out  of  the  question  then.  Still  I 
kept  the  dog  in  my  eye ;  called  every  day  to 
make  friends  with  it,  and  ascertain  its  capacities. 
And  at  last,  thanks  to  you,  Sophy,  I  bought  the 
dog ;  and  what  is  more,  as  soon  as  I  had  two 
golden  sovereigns  to  show,  I  got  him  for  that 
sum,  and  we  have  still  £1  left  (besides  small 
savings  from  our  lost  salaries)  to  go  to  the  com- 
pletion of  his  education,  and  the  advertisement 
of  his  merits.  I  kept  this  a  secret  from  Merle — 
from  all.  I  would  not  even  let  the  drunken  o\vn- 
er  know  where  I  took  the  dog  to  yesterday.  I 
brought  it  here,  where,  I  learned  in  the  village, 
there  were  two  rooms  to  let — locked  it  up — and 
my  story  is  told." 

" But  why  keep  it  such  a  secret?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  Rugge  to  trace  us. 
He  might  do  one  a  mischief;  because  I  have  a 
grand  project  of  genteel  position  and  high  prices 
for  the  exhibition  of  that  dog.  And  why  shoidd 
it  be  kno^\-n  where  we  come  from,  or  what  we 
were  ?  And  because,  if  the  owner  knew  where 
to  find  the  dog,  he  might  decoy  it  back  from  us. 
Luckily,  he  had  not  made  the  dog  so  fond  of 
him  but  what,  unless  it  be  decoyed,  it  will  ac- 
custom itself  to  us.  And  now  I  propose  that  we 
should  stay  a  week  or  so  here,  and  devote  our- 
selves exclusively  to  developing  the  native  powers 
of  this  gifted  creature.     Get  out  the  dominoes." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"Ha  !  that  is  the  first  consideration.  What 
shall  be,  his  name  ?" 

"  Has  not  he  one  already  ?" 

"  Yes — trivial  and  unattractive — Mop  !  In 
private  life  it  might  pass.  But  in  pubUc  life — 
give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  and  hang  him.  Mop, 
indeed!" 

Therewith  Mop,  considering  himself  appealed 
to,  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"Right,"  said  Gentleman  Waife ;  "stretch 
yourself;  you  decidedly  require  it." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mop  becomes  a  Personage.  Much  thought  is  bestowed 
on  the  verbal  dignities,  without  which  a  Personage 
■would  become  a  Mop.  The  importance  of  names  is 
apparent  in  aU  history.  If  Augustus  had  called  him- 
self king,  Rome  would  have  risen  against  him  as  a 
Tarquin;  so  he  remained  a  simple  equestrian,  and 
modestly  called  himself  Imperator.    Mop  chooses  his 


own  title  in  a  most  mysterious  manner,  and  ceases  to 
be  Mop. 

"  The  first  noticeable  defect  in  your  name  of 

Mop,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  "  is,  as  yoit  your- 

.  self  denote,  the  want  of  elongation.     Moiiosyl- 

I  lables  are  not  imposing,  and  in  striking  com- 

;  positions  their  meaning  is  elevated  by  periphra- 

I  sis  ;  that  is  to  say,  Sophy,  that  what  before  was 

a  short  truth,  an  elegant  author  elaborates  into 

a  long  stretch." 

"Certainly,"  said  Sophy,  thoughtfully;  "I 
don't  think  the  name  of  Mop  would  draw !  StUl 
he  is  verv'  like  a  Mop." 

"  For  that  reason  the  name  degrades  him  the 
more,  and  lowers  him  from  an  intellectual  jjhe- 
nomenon  to  a  physical  attribute,  which  is  vul- 
gar. I  hope  that  that  dog  will  enable  us  to  rise 
in  the  Scale  of  Being.  For  whereas  we  in  act- 
ing could  only  command  a  threepenny  audience 
— reserved  seats  a  shilling — he  may  aspire  to 
half-crowns  and  dress-boxes,  that  is,  if  we  can 
hit  on  a  name  which  inspires  respect.  Jsow,  al- 
though the  dog  is  big,  it  is  not  by  his  size  that 
he  is  to  become  famous,  or  we  might  call  him 
Hercules  or  Goliah ;  neither  is  it  by  his  beauty, 
or  Adonis  would  not  be  unsuitable.  It  is  by  his 
superior  sagacity  and  wisdom.  And  there  I  am 
puzzled  to  find  his  prototype  among  mortals ; 
for,  perhaps,  it  may  be  my  ignorance  of  history — " 

"You  ignorant,  indeed,  grmdfather !" 

"But  considering  the  innumerable  millions 
who  have  lived  on  the  earth,  it  is  astonishing 
how  few  I  can  call  to  mind  who  have  left  behind 
them  a  proverbial  renown  for  wisdom.  There 
is,  indeed,  Solomon,  but  he  fell  oft'  at  the  last ; 
and  as  he  belongs  to  sacred  history,  we  must 
not  take  a  liberty  with  his  name.  Who  is  there 
very,  very,  verv"  wise  besides  Solomon  ?  Think, 
Sophy — profane  history." 

Sophy  (after  a  musing  pause).  "  Puss  in 
Boots." 

"Well,  he  u-as  wise;  but  then  he  was  not 
human ;  he  was  a  cat.  Ha !  Socrates.  Shall 
we  call  him  Socrates,  Socrates,  Socrates  ?" 

Sophy.  "  Socrates,  Socrates." 

Mop  yawned. 

Waife.  '  ■  He  don't  take  to  Socrates — prosy  I" 

Sophy.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Merle's  book  abotit  the 
Brazen  Head,  Friar  Bacon .'  He  must  have  been 
very  wise." 

Waife.  "Not  bad;  mysterious,  but  not  re- 
condite ;  historical,  yet  familiar.  What  does 
Mop  say  to  it?  Friar,  Friar,  Friar  Bacon,  Sir 
— Friar." 

Sophy  (coaxingly).  "Friar." 

Mop,  evidently  conceiving  that  appeal  is  made 
to  some  other  personage,  canine  or  human,  not 
present,  rouses  up,  walks  to  tlie  door,  smells  at 
the  chink,  returns,  shakes  his  head,  and  rests 
on  his  haunches,  eying  his  two  friends  super- 
ciliously. 

Sophy.  "  He  does  not  take  to  that  name." 

Watfe.  "He  has  his  reasons  for  it ;  and.  in- 
deed, there  are  many  worthy  persons  who  disap- 
prove of  any  thing  that  savors  of  magical  prac- 
tices. Mop  intimates  that,  on  entering  public 
life,  one  should  beware  of  offending  the  respect- 
able prejudices  of  a  class." 

Mr.  Waife  then,  once  more  resorting  to  the 
recesses  of  scholastic  memory,  filucked  there- 
from, somewhat  by  the  head  and  shoulders,  sun- 
dry names  reverenced  in  a  by-gone  age.    He 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


59 


thought  of  the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece,  but 
could  only  recall  the  nomenclature  of  two  out 
of  the  seven — a  sad  proof  of  the  distinction  be- 
tween collegiate  fame  and  popular  reno'wn.  He 
called  Thales;  he  called  Biou.  Mop  made  no  re- 
sponse. "Wonderful intelligence;"'  saidWaife; 
"he  knows  that  Thales  and  Bion  would  not  draw  I 
— obsolete." 

ilop  was  equally  mute  to  Aristotle.  He 
pricked  up  his  ears  at  Plato,  perhaps  because 
the  sound  was  not  wholly  dissimilar  from  that 
of  Pouto — a  name  of  which  he  might  have  had 
vague  reminiscences.  The  Eomans  not  having 
cultivated  an  original  philosophy,  though  they 
contrived  to  produce  great  men  without  it,  Waife 
passed  by  that  perished  people.  He  crossed  to 
China,  and  tried  Confucius.  Mop  had  evident- 
ly never  heard  of  him.  '•  I  am  at  the  end  of  my 
list,  so  far  as  the  wise  men  are  concerned,"  said 
Waife,  wiping  his  forehead.  '•  If  Mop  were  to 
distinguish  himself  by  valor,  one  would  find  he- 
roes by  the  dozen — Achilles,  and  Hector,  and 
Julius  C*sar.  and  Pompey,  and  Bonaparte,  and 
Alexander  the  Great,  and  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough. Or,  if  he  wrote  poetry,  we  could  fit 
him  to  a  hair.  But  wise  men  certainly  are 
scarce,  and  when  one  has  hit  on  a  wise  man's 
name,  it  is  so  little  known  to  the  vulgar  that  it 
would  carry  no  more  weight  with  it  than  Spot 
or  Toby.  But  necessarily  some  name  the  dog 
must  have,  and  take  to,  sympathetically." 

Sophy  meanwhile  had  extracted  the  dominoes 
from  Waife 's  bundle,  and  with  the  dominoes  an 
alphabet  and  a  multiplication-table  in  printed 
capitals.  As  the  Comedian's  one  eye  rested 
upon  the  last,  he  exclaimed,  '•  But  after  all, 
Mop"s  great  strength  will  probably  be  in  arith- 
metic, and  the  science  of  numbers  is  the  root  of 
all  wisdom.  Besides,  every  man,  high  and  low, 
wants  to  make  a  fortune,  and  associations  con- 
nected with  addition  and  multiplication  are  al- 
ways pleasing.  Who,  then,  is  the  sage  at  com- 
putation most  universally  known  ?  Unquestion- 
ably Cocker.'  He  must  take  to  that — Cocker, 
Cocker  (commandingly).  C-o-c-k-e-r,"  with  per- 
suasive sweetness. 

Mop  looked  puzzled ;  he  put  his  head  first  on 
one  side,  then  the  other. 

SoPHT  (with  mellifluous  endearment).  "Cock- 
er, good  Cocker;  Cocker  dear." 

Both.  '"Cocker,  Cocker,  Cocker!" 

Excited  and  bewildered,  Mop  put  up  his  head, 
and  gave  vent  to  his  j)erplexities  in  a  long  and 
lugubrious  howl,  to  which  certainly  none  who 
heard  it  could  have  desired  addition  or  multi- 
plication, 

••  Stop  this  instant.  Sir — stop  :  I  shoot  you ! 
You  are  dead — down !"'  Waife  adjusted  his  staff 
to  his  shoulder  gun-wise ;  and  at  the  word  of 
command,  Down,  Mop  was  on  his  side,  stifi'  and 
lifele--s.  ••  Still,"  said  Wait'e,  "•  a  name  con- 
nected with  profound  calculation  would  be  the 
most  appropriate ;  for  instance.  Sir  Isaac — " 

Before  the  comedian  could  get  out  the  word 
Newton,  Mop  had  sprung  to  his  four  feet,  and, 
with  wagging  tail  and  ^vriggling  back,  evinced  a 
sense  ot  beatified  recognition. 

"  Astounding  1'  said  Waife,  rather  awed. 
'■  Can  it  be  the  name?  Impossible.  Six  Isaac, 
Sir  Isaac  I" 

"Bow  wow  I"  answered  Mop,  joyously. 

"  If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  doctrine  of  me- 


tempsychosis I"  faltered  Gentleman  Waife,  "  if 
the  great  Newton  could  have  transmigrated  into 
that  incomparable  animal.  Newton,  Newton." 
To  that  name  Mop  made  no  obeisance,  but.  evi- 
dently still  restless,  walked  round  the  room, 
smelUng  at  every  corner,  and  turning  to  look 
back  with  inquisitive  earnestness  at  his  new 
master. 

"He  does  not  seem  to  catch  at  the  name  of 
Newton,"  said  Waife,  trying  it  thrice  again,  and 
vainly,  "and  yet  he  seems  extremely  well 
versed  in  the  principle  of  gravity.  Sir  Isaac  I" 
The  dog  bounded  toward  him,  put  his  paws  on 
his  shoulders,  and  licked  his  face.  "Just  cut 
out  those  figures  carefully,  my  dear,  and  see  if 
we  can  get  him  to  tell  us  how  much  twice  ten 
,  are — I  mean  by  addressing  him  as  Sir  Isaac." 

Sophy  cut  the  figures  from  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  arranged  them,  at  Waife's  instruction, 
in  a  circle  on  the  floor.    "  Now,  Sir  Isaac."    ^lop 
lifted  a  paw,  and  walked  deliberately  round  the 
letters.     "  Now,  Sir  Isaac,  how  much  are  ten 
times  two  ?"    3Iop  deliberately  made  his  survey 
and  calculation,  and  pausing  at  twenty  stooped, 
and  took  the  letters  in  his  mouth. 
I      "It  is  not  natural,"  cried  Sophy,  much  alarm- 
ed.    "It  must  be  wicked,  and  I'd  rather  have 
I  nothing  to  do  with  it,  please." 
I      "  Silly  child.     He  was  but  obeying  my  sign. 
I  He  had  been  taught  that  trick  already  under  the 
I  name  of  Mop.     The  only  strange  thing  is,  that 
I  he  should  do  it  also  under  the  name  of  Sir  Isaac, 
!  and  much  more  cheerfully  too.   However,  wheth- 
er he  has  been  the  great  Newton  or  not,  a  live 
dog  is  better  than  a  dead  Uon.     But  it  is  clear 
that,  in  acknowledging  the  name  of  Sir  Isaac, 
he  does  not  encourage  us  to  take  that  of  New- 
j  ton — and  he  is  right";  for  it  might  be  thought 
I  unbecoming  to  apply  to  an  animal,  however  ex- 
I  traordinarv",  who,  by  the  severity  of  fortune  is 
!  compelled  to  exhibit  his  talents  "for  a  small  pe- 
'  cuniary  reward,  the  family  name  of  so  great  a 
philosopher.     Sir  Isaac,  after  all,  is  a  vague  ap- 
.  pellation — any  dog  has  a  right  to  be  Sir  Isaac 
— Newton  may  be  left  conjectural.     Let  us  see 
if  we  can  add  to  our  arithmetical  information. 
Look  at  me,  Sir  Isaac."     Sir  Isaac  looked,  and 
grinned  aflectionately  ;    and    under   that   title 
learned  a  new  combination  with  a  facility  that 
might  have  relieved  Sophy's  mind  of  all  su- 
perstitious belief  that  the  philosopher  was  re- 
suscitated in  the  dog,  had  she  kno\vn  that  in 
life  that  great  master  of  calculations  the  most 
abstruse  could  not  accurately  cast  up  a  simple 
sum  in  addition.     Nothing  brought  him  to  the 
end  of  his  majestic  tether  like  dot  and  carry 
one.     Notable  type  of  our  human  incomplete- 
ness, where  men  might  deem  our  studies  had 
made  us  most  complete.     Notable  t%"pe,  too,  of 
that  grandest  order  of  all  human  genius  which 
seems  to  arrive  at  results  by  intuition,  which  a 
child  might  pose  by  a  row  of  figures  on  a  slate 
— while  it  is  solving  the  laws  that  link  the  stars 
to  infinity.     But  revenons  a  nos  moutons,  what 
the  astral  attraction  that  incontestably  bound 
the  reminiscences  of  Mop  to  the  cognominal 
distinction  of  Sir  Isaac  ?    I  had  prepared  a  very 
erudite  and  subtle  treatise  upon  this  query,  en- 
livened by  quotations  from  the  ancient  Mystics 
— such  as  lambhchus  and  Proclus,  as  well  as  by 
a  copious  reference  to  the  doctrine  of  the  more 
modem  Spiritualists,  from  Sir  Kenelm  Digbj 


CO 


WHAT  "WILL  HE  DO  TVITH  IT? 


and  Swedenborg,  to  Jlonsieur  Cahagnet  and 
Judge  Edmonds:  it  was  to  be  called  Inquiry 
into  the  Law  of  AiRnities,  by  Fhilomopsos : 
when,  unluckily  for  my  treatise,  I  arrived  at  the 
knowled,a;e  of  a  fact  which,  though  it  did  not 
render  the  treatise  less  curious,  knocked  on  the 
head  the  theory  upon  which  it  was  based.  The 
baptismal  name  of  the  old  soldier,  flop's  first 
proprietor  and  earliest  preceptor,  was  Isaac ; 
and  his  master  being  called  in  the  homely 
household  by  that  Christian  name,  the  sound 
had  entered  into  Mop's  youngest  and  most  en- 
deared associations.  His  canine  affections  had 
done  much  toward  ripening  his  scholastic  edu- 
cation. "  Where  is  Isaac  ?"  "  Call  Isaac  I" 
'•Fetch  Isaac  his  hat,"  etc.,  etc.  Stilled  was 
that  name  when  the  old  soldier  died ;  but  when 
heard  again,  Mop's  heart  was  moved,  and  in 
missing  the  old  master,  he  felt  more  at  home 
with  the  new.  As  for  the  title,  "  Sir,"  it  was  a 
mere  expletive  in  his  ears.  Such  was  the  fact, 
and  such  the  deduction  to  be  drawn  from  it. 
Not  that  it  will  satisfy  every  one.  I  know  that 
philosophers  who  deny  all  that  they  have  not 
witnessed,  and  refuse  to  witness  what  they  re- 
solve to  deny,  will  reject  the  storj'  in  toto ;  and 
will  prove,  by  reference  to  their  own  dogs,  that 
a  dog  never  recognizes  the  name  of  his  master 
■ — never  yet  could  be  taught  arithmetic.  I  know 
also  that  there  are  ilystics  who  will  prefer  to 
believe  that  Mop  was  in  direct  spiritual  commu- 
nication with  unseen  Isaacs,  or  in  a  state  of 
clairvoyance,  or  under  the  influence  of  the  odic 
fluid.  But  did  we  ever  yet  find  in  human  rea- 
son a  question  with  only  one  side  to  it  ?  Is  not 
truth  a  polygon?  Have  not  sages  arisen  in  our 
day  to  deny  even  the  principle  of  gravity,  for 
which  we  had  been  so  long  contentedly  taking 
the  word  of  the  great  Sir  Isaac  ?  It  is  that 
blessed  spirit  of  controversy  which  keeps  the 
world  going ;  and  it  is  that  which,  perhaps,  ex- 
plains why  3Ir.  Waife,  when  his  memory  was 
fairly  put  to  it,  could  remember,  out  of  the  his- 
tory of  the  myriads  who  have  occupied  our  plan- 
et from  the  date  of  Adam  to  that  in  which  I  now 
write,  so  very  few  men  whom  the  world  will 
agree  to  call  wise,  and  out  of  that  verv'  few  so 
scant  a  percentage  with  names  sufiiciently  known 
to  make  them  more  popularly  significant  of  pre- 
eminent sagacity  than  if  they  had  been  called 
— Mops. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Vagrant  having  got  his  dog,  proceeds  to  hunt  For- 
tune with  it,  leaving  behind  him  a  trap  to  catch  rats. 
What  the  trap  does  catch  is  "just  like  his  luck!" 

Sir  Isaac,  to  designate  him  by  his  new  name, 
improved  much  upon  acquaintance.  He  was 
still  in  the  ductile  season  of  youth,  and  took  to 
learning  as  an  amusement  to  himself.  His  last 
master,  a  stupid  sot,  had  not  gained  his  affec- 
tions— and  perhaps  even  the  old  soldier,  though 
gratefully  remembered  and  mourned,  had  not 
stolen  into  his  innermost  heart,  as  Waife  and 
Sophy  gently  contrived  to  do.  In  short,  in  a 
very  few  days  he  became  perfectly  accustomed 
and  extremely  attached  to  them.  When  Waife 
had  ascertained  the  extent  of  his  accomplish- 
ments, and  added  somewhat  to  their  range  in 
matters  which  cost  no  great  trouble,  he  applied 
himself  to  the  task  of  composing  a  little  drama, 


which  might  bring  them  all  into  more  interest- 
ing play,  and  in  which,  tliough  Sophy  and  him- 
self were  performers,  the  dog  had  the  premkr 
role.  And  as  soon  as  this  was  done,  and  the 
dog's  performances  thus  ranged  into  methodical 
order  and  sequence,  he  resolved  to  set  oflp  to  a 
considerable  town  at  some  distance,  and  to  which 
Mr.  Rugge  was  no  visitor. 

His  bill  at  the  cottage  made  but  slight  inroad 
into  his  pecuniary  resources ;  for  in  the  inter- 
vals of  leisure  from  his  instructions  to  Sir  Isaac, 
Waife  had  performed  various  little  ser\-ices  to 
the  lone  widow  with  whom  they  lodged,  which 
Mrs.  Saunders  (such  was  her  name)  insisted 
upon  regarding  as  money's  worth.  He  had  re- 
paired and  regulated  to  a  minute  an  old  clock 
which  had  taken  no  note  of  time  for  the  last 
three  years  ;  he  had  mended  all  the  broken 
crockery  by  some  cement  of  his  own  invention, 
and  for  which  she  got  him  the  materials.  And 
here  his  ingenuity  was  remarkable,  for  when 
there  was  only  a  fragment  to  be  found  of  a  cup, 
and  a  fragment  or  t^vo  of  a  saucer,  he  united 
them  both  into  some  pretty  form,  which,  if  not 
useful,  at  all  events  looked  well  on  a  shelf.  He 
bound,  in  smart,  showy  papers,  sundry  tattered 
old  books  which  had  belonged  to  his  landlady's 
defunct  husband,  a  Scotch  gardener,  and  which 
she  displayed  on  a  side-table,  under  the  Japan 
tea-tray.  Jlore  than  all,  he  was  of  senice  to 
her  in  her  vocation ;  for  ilrs.  Saunders  eked 
out  a  small  pension — which  she  derived  from 
the  affectionate  providence  of  her  Scotch  hus- 
band, in  insuring  his  life  in  her  favor — by  the 
rearing  and  sale  of  poultry;  and  Waife  saved 
her  the  expense  of  a  caqienter  by  the  construc- 
tion of  a  new  coop,  elevated  above  the  reach  of 
the  rats,  who  had  hitherto  made  sad  ravage 
among  the  chickens ;  while  he  confided  to  her 
certain  secrets  in  the  improvement  of  breed  and 
the  cheaper  processes  of  fattening,  which  ex- 
cited her  gratitude  no  less  than  her  wonder. 
"The  fact  is,"  said  Gentleman' Waife,  ''that 
my  life  has  known  make-shifts.  Once,  in  a  for- 
eign country,  I  kept  poultiy  upon  the  principle 
that  the  poidtrj-  should  keep  me." 

Strange  it  was  to  notice  such  versatility  of  in- 
vention, such  readiness  of  resource,  such  famil- 
iarity with  divers  nooks  and  crannies  in  the 
practical  experience  of  life,  in  a  man  now  so 
hard  put  to  it  for  a  livelihood.  There  are  per- 
sons, however,  who  might  have  a  good  stock 
of  talent,  if  they  did  not  turn  it  all  into  small 
change.  And  you,  reader,  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
that  when  a  sovereign  or  a  shilling  is  once  bro- 
ken into,  the  change  scatters  and  dispends  itself 
in  a  way  quite  unaccountable.  Still  coppers  are 
useful  in  household  bills  ;  and  when  Waife  was 
really  at  a  pinch,  somehow  or  other,  by  hook  or 
by  crook,  he  scraped  together  intellectual  half- 
pence enough  to  pay  his  way. 

Mrs.  Saunders  grew  quite  fond  of  her  lodg- 
ers. Waife  she  regarded  as  a  prodigy  of  gen- 
ius ;  Sophy  was  the  prettiest  and  best  of  chil- 
dren; Sir  Isaac,  she  took  for  gi-anted,  was  wor- 
thy of  his  owners.  But  the  Comedian  did  not 
confide  to  her  his  dog's  learning,  nor  the  use  to 
which  he  designed  to  put  it.  And  in  still  great- 
er precaution,  when  he  took  his  leave,  he  ex- 
tracted from  Mrs.  Saunders  a  solemn  promise 
that  she  would  set  no  one  en  his  track,  in  case 
of  impertinent  inquiries. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


CI 


"You  see  before  you,"  said  he,  '"a  man  who 
has  enemies — such  as  rats  are  to  your  chickens : 
chickens  despise  rats  when  raised,  as  yours  are 
now,  above  the  reach  of  claws  and  teeth.  Some 
day  or  other  I  may  so  raise  a  coop  for  that  little 
one — I  am  too  old  for  coops.  Jleanwhile,  if  a 
rat  comes  sneaking  here  after  us,  send  it  oil"  the 
wrong  way,  with  a  flea  in  its  ear." 

Mrs.  Saunders  promised,  between  tears  and 
langliter;  blessed  Waife,  kissed  So))hy,  patted 
Sir  Isaac,  and  stood  long  at  her  threshold  watch- 
ing the  three,  as  the  early  sun  lit  their  forms 
receding  in  the  green,  narrow  lane — dew-drops 
sparkling  on  the  hedgerows,  and  the  sky-lark 
springing  upward  from  the  young  corn. 

Then  she  slowly  turned  in-doors,  and  her 
home  seemed  very  solitary.  We  can  accustom 
ourselves  to  loneliness,  but  y,e  should  beware  of 
infringing  the  custom.  Once  admit  two  or  three 
faces  seated  at  your  hearthside,  or  gazing  out 
from  your  windows  on  the  laughing  sun,  and 
when  they  are  gone,  they  caiTv  off  the  glow 
from  your  grate  and  the  sunbeam  from  your 
panes.  Poor  Jlrs.  Saunders !  in  vain  she  sought 
to  rouse  herself,  to  put  the  rooms  to  rights,  to 
attend  to  the  chickens,  to  distract  her  thoughts. 
The  one-eyed  cripple,  the  little  girl,  the  shaggy- 
faced  dog,  still  haunted  her;  and  when  at  noon 
she  dined  all  alone  off  the  remnants  of  the  last 
night's  social  supper,  the  very  click  of  the  reno- 
vated clock  seemed  to  say,  "Gone,  gone;"  and 
muttering,  "Ah!  gone,"  she  reclined  back  on 
her  chair,  and  indulged  herself  in  a  good  wo- 
manlike ciy.  From  this  luxury  slie  was  startled 
by  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Could  they  have  come 
back?"  No;  the  door  opened,  and  a  genteel 
young  man,  in  a  black  coat  and  white  neckloth, 
step]ied  in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am — your  name's 
Saunders — sell  poultry  ?" 

"At  your  service,  Sir.  Spring  chickens  I" 
Poor  people,  whatever  their  grief,  must  sell  their 
chickens,  if  they  have  any  to  sell. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am;  not  at  this  moment. 
The  fact  is,  that  I  call  to  make  some  inquiries. 
Have  not  you  lodgers  here?" 

Lodgers !  at  that  word  the  expanding  soul  of 
]Mrs.  Saunders  reclosed  hermetically ;  the  last 
warning  of  Waife  revibi-ated  in  her  ears :  this 
whitQ-neckclothed  gentleman,  was  he  not  a  rat? 

"  No,  Sir,  I  han't  no  lodgers." 

"But  you  have  had  some  lately,  eh?  a  crip- 
pled elderly  man  and  a  little  girl." 

"Don't  know  any  thing  about  them;  least- 
ways," said  ^Irs.  Saunders,  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  she  was  told  less  to  deny  facts  than  to 
send  inquirers  upon  wrong  directions — "least- 
ways, at  this  blessed  time.  Pray,  Sir,  what 
makes  you  ask?"^ 

"  Why,  I  was  instructed  to  come  down  to , 

and  find  out  where  this  person,  one  William 
Waife,  had  gone.  Arrived  yesterday,  ma'am. 
All  I  could  hear  is,  that  a  person  answering  to 
his  description  left  the  place  several  days  ago, 
and  had  been  seen  by  a  boy,  who  was  tending 
sheep,  to  come  down  the  lane  to  your  house,  and 
you  were  supposed  to  have  lodgers  (You  take 
lodgers  sometimes,  I  think,  ma'am) ;  because 
you  had  been  buying  some  trifling  articles  of 
food  not  in  your  usual  way  of  custom.  Circum- 
stantial evidence,  ma'am — you  can  have  no  mo- 
tive to  conceal  the  truth." 


"I  should  think  not  indeed,  Sir,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Saunders,  whom  the  ominous  words  "circum- 
stantial ertdence"  set  doubly  on  her  guard.  "  I 
did  see  a  gentleman  such  as  you  mention,  and 
a  pretty  young  lady,  about  ten  days  agone,  or 
so,  and  they  did  lodge  here  a  uight  or  two,  but 
they  are  gone  to — " 

"  Yes,  ma'am — gone  where  ?" 

"Lunnon." 


By  the   train  or  on 


"  Really — very  likely, 
foot?" 

"On  foot,  I  s'pose." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  If  you  should  see  them 
again,  or  hear  where  they  are,  oblige  me  by  con- 
veying this  card  to  i\Ir.  "Waife.  JSIy  employer, 
ma'am,  JMr.  Gotobed,  Craven  Street,  Strand — 
eminent  solicitor.  He  has  something  of  im- 
portance to  communicate  to  ^Mr.  Waife." 

"  Yes,  Sir — a  lawyer ;  I  understand."  And  as 
of  all  rat-like  animals  in  the  world  Mrs.  Saun- 
ders had  the  ignorance  to  deem  a  lawyer  was 
the  most  emphatically  devouring,  she  congratu- 
lated herself  with  her  whole  heart  on  the  white 
lies  she  had  told  in  favor  of  the  intended  victims. 

The  blackcoated  gentleman  having  thus  obeyed 
his  instructions,  and  attained  his  object,  nodded, 
went  his  way,  and  regained  the  fly  which  he  had 
left  at  the  turnstile.  "  Back  to  the  inn,"  cried 
he — "quick — I  must  be  in  time  fur  the  three 
o'clock  train  to  London." 

And  thus  terminated  the  result  of  the  gi-eat 
barrister's  first  instructions  to  his  eminent  solic- 
itor to  discover  a  lame  man  and  a  little  girl. 
No  inquiiy,  on  the  whole,  could  have  been  more 
skillfully  conducted.  Mr.  Gotobed  sends  his 
head  clerk — tlie  head,  clerk  employs  the  police- 
man of  the  village — gets  upon  the  right  track — 
comes  to  the  right  house — and  is  altogether  in 
the  wrong — in  a  manner  highly  creditable  to  his 
researches. 

"In  London,  of  course — all  people  of  that 
kind  come  back  to  London,"  said  Mr.  Gotobed. 
"Give  me  the  heads  in  writing,  that  I  may  re- 
port to  my  distinguished  client.  Most  satisfac- 
tory. That  young  man  will  push  his  way — 
business-like  and  methodical." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  cloud  has  its  silver  lining. 

Tnus  turning  his  back  on  the  good  fortune 
which  he  had  so  carefully  cautioned  IMrs.  Saun- 
ders against  favoring  on  his  behalf,  the  vagrant 
was  now  on  his  way  to  the  ancient  municipal 
town  of  Gatesborough,  which  being  the  nearest 
place  of  fitting  opulence  and  population,  Mr. 
Waife  had  resolved  to  honor  with  tlie  dciiit  of 
Sir  Isaac  as  soon  as  he  had  appropriated  to  him- 
self the  services  of  that  promising  quadruped. 
He  liad  consulted  a  map  of  the  county  before 
quitting  Mr.  Merle's  roof,  and  ascertahied  tliat 
he  could  reach  Gatesborough  by  a  short  cut  for 
foot-travelers  along  fields  and  lanes.  He  was 
always  glad  to  avoid  the  high-road:  doubtless 
for  such  avoidance  he  had  good  reasons.  But 
prudential  reasons  were  in  this  instance  suj)- 
ported  by  vagrant  inclinations.  High-roads  are 
for  the  prosperous.  By-i)aths  and  ill-luck  go 
together.  But  by-patlis  have  their  charm,  and 
ill-luck  its  pleasant  moments. 


C2 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


They  passed,  then,  from  the  high-road  into  a 
long  succession  of  green  pastures,  through  which 
a  straight  public  path  conducted  them  into  one 
of  those  charming  lanes  never  seen  out  of  this 
boweiy  England — a  lane  deep  sunk  amidst  high 
banks,  with  overhanging  oaks,  and  quivering 
ash,  gnarled  witch-elm,  vivid  holly,  and  shaggy 
brambles,  with  Avild  convolvulus  and  creeping 
woodbine  forcing  sweet  life  through  all.  Some- 
times the  banks  opened  abruptly,  leaving  patches 
of  greensward,  and  peeps  through  still  seques- 
tered gates,  or  over  moss-grown  pales,  into  the 
park  or  paddock  of  some  rural  thane.  New 
villas  or  old  manor-houses  on  lawny  uplands, 
knitting,  as  it  were,  together,  England's  feudal 
memories  with  England's  free-born  hopes — the 
old  land  with  its  young  people ;  for  England  is 
so  old,  and  the  English  are  so  young !  And  the 
gray  cripple  and  the  bright-haired  child  often 
paused,  and  gazed  upon  the  demesnes  and  homes 
of  owners  whose  lots  were  cast  in  such  pleasant 
places.  But  there  was  no  grudging  envy  in  their 
gaze ;  perhaps  because  their  life  was  too  remote 
from  those  grand  belongings.  And  therefore 
they  could  enjoy  and  possess  every  banquet  of 
the  eye.  For  at  least  the  beauty  of  what  we 
see  is  ours  for  the  moment,  on  the  simple  con- 
dition that  we  do  not  covet  the  thing  which 
gives  to  our  eyes  that  beauty.  As  the  measure- 
less sky  and  the  unnumbered  stars  are  equally 
granted  to  king  and  to  beggar — and  in  our  wild- 
est ambition  we  do  not  sigh  for  a  monopoly  of 
the  empyrean,  or  the  fee-simple  of  the  planets 
— so  the  earth  too,  with  all  its  fenced  gardens 
and  embattled  walls — all  its  landmarks  of  stern 
property  and  churlish  ownership — is  ours  too  by 
right  of  eye.  Ours  to  gaze  on  the  fair  posses- 
sions with  such  delight  as  the  gaze  can  give ; 
grudging  to  the  unseen  owner  his  other,  and  it 
may  be  more  troubled  rights,  as  little  as  we 
grudge  an  astral  proprietor  his  acres  of  light  in 
Capricorn.  Benignant  is  the  law  that  saith, 
"  TIiou  shall  not  covet." 

When  the  sun  was  at  the  higliest,  our  way- 
farers found  a  shadowy  nook  for  their  rest  and 
repast.  Before  them  ran  a  shallow  limpid  trout- 
stream  ;  on  the  otlier  side  its  margin,  low  grassy 
meadows,  a  farm-house  at  the  distance,  backed 
by  a  still  grove,  from  which  rose  a  still  church- 
tower  and  its  still  spire.  Behind  them  a  close- 
shaven  sloping  lawn  terminated  the  hedgerow 
of  the  lane ;  seen  clearly  above  it,  with  parterres 
of  flowers  on  the  sward — drooping  lilacs  and 
laburnums  farther  back,  and  a  pervading  fra- 
grance from  the  brief-lived  and  rich  syringas. 
The  cripple  had  climbed  over  a  wooden  rail  that 
separated  the  lane  from  the  rill,  and  seated  him- 
self under  the  shade  of  a  fantastic  hollow  thorn- 
tree.  Sophy,  reclined  beside  him,  was  gather- 
ing some  pale  scentless  violets  from  a  mound 
which  the  brambles  had  guarded  fi'om  the  sun. 
The  dog  had  descended  to  the  waters  to  quench 
his  thirst ;  but  still  stood  knee-deep  in  the  shal- 
low stream,  and  appeared  lost  in  philosophical 
contemplation  of  a  swarm  of  minnows  which  his 
immersion  had  disturbed ;  but  which  now  made 
itself  again  visible  on  the  further  side  of  the 
glassy  brook,  undulating  round  and  round  a  tiny 
rocklet  which  interrupted  the  glide  of  the  waves, 
and  caused  them  to  break  into  a  low  melodious 
murmur.  "For  these  and  all  thy  mercies,  O 
Lord,  make  ns  thankful,"  said  the  Victim  of  Ill- 


luck,  in  the  tritest  words  of  a  pious  custom. 
But  never,  perhaps,  at  aldermanic  feasts,  was 
the  grace  more  sincerely  said. 

And  then  he  untied  the  bundle,  which  the 
dog,  who  had  hitherto  carried  it  by  the  way,  had 
now  carefully  deposited  at  his  side.  "  As  I  live," 
ejaculated  Waife,  "Mrs.  Saunders  is  a  woman 
in  ten  thousand.  See,  Sophy,  not  contented 
with  the  bread  and  cheese  to  which  I  bade  her 
stint  her  beneficence,  a  whole  chicken — a  little 
cake  too  for  you,  Sophy ;  she  has  not  even  for- 
gotten the  salt.  Sophy,  that  woman  deserves 
the  handsomest  token  of  our  gratitude ;  and  we 
will  present  her  with  a  silver  tea-pot  the  first  mo- 
ment we  can  atFord  it." 

His  spirits  exhilarated  by  the  unexpected  good 
cheer,  the  Comedian  gave  Avay  to  his  naturally 
blithe  humor;  and  between  every  mouthful  he 
rattled  or  rather  drolled  on,  now  infant-like, 
now  sage-like.  He  cast  out  the  rays  of  his  lib- 
eral humor,  careless  where  they  fell — on  the 
child — on  the  dog — on  the  fishes  that  jilayed 
beneath  the  Avave — on  the  cricket  that  chirped 
amidst  the  grass:  the  woodpecker  tapped  the 
tree,  and  the  cripple's  merry  voice  answered  it 
in  bird-like  mimicry.  To  this  riot  of  genial 
babble  there  was  a  listener,  of  whom  neither 
grandfather  nor  grandchild  was  aware.  Con- 
cealed by  thick  brushwood  a  few  paces  fiirther 
on,  a  young  angler,  who  might  be  five  or  six 
and  twenty,  had  seated  himself,  just  before  the 
arrival  of  our  vagrant  to  those  banks  and  waters, 
for  the  purpose  of  changing  an  imsuccessful  fly. 
At  the  sound  of  voices,  perhaps  suspecting  an 
unlicensed  rival — for  that  part  of  the  stream 
was  pjreserved — he  had  suspended  his  task,  and 
noiselessly  put  aside  the  clustering  leaves  to 
reconnoitre.  The  piety  of  Waife's  simple  gi-ace 
seemed  to  surprise  him  pleasingly,  for  a  sweet 
approving  smile  crossed  his  lips.  He  continued 
to  look  and  to  listen.  He  forgot  the  fly,  and  a 
trout  sailed  him  by  unheeded.  But  Sir  Isaac, 
having  probably  satisfied  his  speculative  mind 
as  to  the  natural  attributes  of  minnows,  now 
slowly  reascended  the  bank,  and  after  a  brief 
halt  and  a  snifl',  walked  majestically  toward  the 
hidden  observer,  looked  at  him  with  great  so- 
lemnity, and  uttered  an  inquisitive  bark — a  bark 
not  hostile,  not  menacing;  purely  and  dryly  in- 
teiTOgative.  Thus  detected,  the  angler  rose ; 
and  Waife,  whose  attention  was  attracted  that 
way  by  the  bark,  saw  him,  called  to  Sir  Isaac, 
and  said  politelv,  "  There  is  no  harm  in  my  dog, 
Sir." 

The  young  man  muttered  some  inaudible  reply, 
and,  lifting  up  his  rod,  as  in  sign  of  his  occupa- 
tion or  excuse  for  his  vicinity,  put  aside  the  in- 
tervening foliage,  and  stepped  quietly  to  Waife's 
side.  Sir  Isaac  followed  him — sniffed  again — 
seemed  satisfied ;  and,  seating  himself  on  his 
haunches,  fixed  his  attention  upon  the  remains 
of  the  chicken  which  lay  defenseless  on  the 
grass.  The  new-comer  was  evidently  of  the 
rank  of  gentleman ;  his  figure  was  slim  and 
graceful,  his  face  pale,  meditative,  refined.  He 
would  have  impressed  you  at  once  with  the  idea 
of  what  he  really  was — an  Oxford  scholar ;  and 
you  would,  perhaps,  have  guessed  him  designed 
for  the  ministry  of  the  Church,  if  not  actually 
in  orders. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


63 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

3tr.  Waife  excites  the  admiration,  and  benignly  pities 
the  inlirmity  of  an  Oxford  scholar. 

"  You  are  str — str — strangers  ?"  said  the  Ox- 
onian, after  a  violent  exertion  to  express  him- 
self, caused  by  an  impediment  in  his  speech. 

Waife.  "Yes,  Sir,  travelers.  I  trust  we  are 
not  trespassing :  this  is  not  private  ground,  I 
think?" 

OxoxiAX.   "And  if — f— f— f  it  were,  my  f— 
f — father  would  not  war — n — n  you  off — If — f." 
"It  is  your  father's  ground  then?     Sir,  I  beg 
vou  a  thousand  pardons." 

The  apology  was  made  in  the  Comedian's 
grandest  style — it  imposed  greatly  on  the  young 
scholar.  Waife  might  have  been  a  duke  in  dis- 
guise ;  but  I  will  do  the  angler  the  justice  to  say 
that  such  discovery  of  rank  would  have  impress- 
ed him  little  more  in  the  vagrant's  favor.  It 
had  been  that  impromptu  "grace" — that  thanks- 
giving which  the  scholar  felt  was  for  something 
more  than  the  carnal  food — which  had  first 
commanded  his  respect  and  wakened  his  inter- 
est. Then  that  innocent,  careless  talk,  part  ut- 
tered to  dog  and  child — part  soliloquized — part 
thrown  out  to  the  cars  of  the  lively  teeming 
Nature,  had  touched  a  somewhat  kindred  chord 
in  the  angler's  soul,  for  he  was  somewhat  of  a 
poet  and  much  of  a  soliloquist,  and  could  confer 
with  Nature,  nor  feel  that  impediment  in  speech 
which  obstructed  his  intercourse  with  men.  Hav- 
ing thus  far  indicated  that  oral  defect  in  our  new 
acquaintance,  the  reader  will  cheerfully  excuse 
me  for  not  enforcing  it  overmuch.  Let  it  be 
among  the  things  sttb  audita,  as  the  sense  of  it 
gave  to  a  gifted  and  aspiring  nature,  thwarted 
in  the  sublime  career  of  preacher,  an  exquisite 
mournful  jjain.  And  I  no  more  like  to  raise  a 
laugh  at  his  infirmity  behind  his  back,  than  I 
should  before  his  pale,  powerful,  melancholy 
face — therefore  I  suppress  the  infirmity  in  giv- 
ing his  reply. 

Oxonian.  "  On  the  other  side  the  lane  where 
the  garden  slopes  downward  is  my  fathers 
house.  This  ground  is  his  property  certainly, 
but  he  puts  it  to  its  best  use,  in  lending  it  to 
those  who  so  piously  acknowledge  that  Father 
from  whom  all  good  comes.  Your  child,  I  pre- 
sume, Sir?" 

"My  grandchild." 

"  She  seems  delicate ;  I  hope  you  have  not 
far  to  go?" 

"  Not  veiy  far,  thank  you,  Sir.  But  my  little 
girl  looks  more  delicate  than  she  is.  You  are 
not  tired,  darling?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all!"  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  looks  of  real  love  intei'changed  between  the 
old  man  and  the  child :  the  scholar  felt  much 
interested  and  somewhat  puzzled.  "Who  and 
what  could  tiicy  be?  so  unlike  foot  wayfarers  !" 
On  the  other  hand,  too,  Waife  took  a  liking  to 
the  courteous  young  man,  and  conceived  a  sin- 
cere pity  for  his  piiysical  affliction.  But  he  did 
not  for  those  reasons  depart  from  the  discreet 
caution  he  had  prescribed  to  himself  in  seeking 
new  fortunes  and  shunning  old  jierils,  so  he 
turned  the  subject. 

"  You  are  an  angler.  Sir  ?  I  suppose  the  trout 
in  this  stream  run  small." 

"Not  very — a  little  higher  up  I  have  caught 
them  at  four  pounds  weight." 


Waife.  "  There  goes  a  fine  fish  yonder — see ! 
balancing  himself  between  those  weeds." 

Oxonian.  "Poor  fellow,  let  him  be  safe  to- 
day. After  all,  it  is  a  cruel  sport,  and  I  should 
break  myself  of  it.  But  it  is  strange  that  what- 
ever our  love  for  Nature,  we  always  seek  some 
excuse  for  tnisting  ourselves  alone  to  her.  A 
gun — a  rod — a  sketch-book — a  geologist's  ham- 
mer— an  entomologist's  net — something." 

AVaife.  "  Is  it  not  because  all  our  ideas  would 
run  wild  if  not  concentrated  on  a  definite  pur- 
suit? Fortune  and  Nature  are  earnest  females, 
though  popular  beauties;  and  they  do  not  look 
upon  coquettish  trificrs  in  the  light  of  genuine 
wooers." 

The  Oxonian  who,  in  venting  his  previous  re- 
mark, had  thought  it  likely  he  should  be  above 
his  listener's  comprehension,  looked  surjiriscd. 
What  pursuits,  too,  had  this  one-eyed  pliiloso- 
pher ! 

"You  have  a  definite  pursuit,  Sir?" 

"I — alas — when  a  man  moralizes,  it  is  a  sign 
that  he  has  known  eiTor:  it  is  because  I  have 
been  a  trifler  that  I  rail  against  triflers.  And 
talking  of  that,  time  flies,  and  we  must  be  oft' 
and  away." 

Sophy  rctied  the  bundle.  Sir  Isaac,  on  whom, 
meanwhile,  she  had  bestowed  the  remains  of 
the  chicken,  jumped  up  and  described  a  circle, 

"  I  wish  you  success  in  your  pursuit,  whatever 
it  be,"  stuttered  out  the  angler. 

"  And  I  no  less  heartily.  Sir,  wish  you  success 
in  yours." 

"  jNIine  !     Success  there  is  beyond  my  power." 

"How,  Sir?  Does  it  rest  so  much  with 
others?" 

"No,  my  failure  is  in  myself.  My  career 
should  be  the  Church,  my  pursuit  the  cure  of 
souls,  and — and — this  pitiful  infirmity !  How 
can  I  speak  the  Divine  Word — I — I — a  stutter- 
er!" 

The  young  man  did  not  pause  for  an  answer, 
but  plunged  through  the  brushwood  that  be- 
spread the  banks  of  the  rill,  and  his  hurried 
path  could  be  traced  by  the  wave  of  the  foliage 
through  which  he  forced  his  way. 

"  We  all  have  our  burdens,"  said  Gentleman 
Waife,  as  Sir  Isaac  took  up  the  bundle,  and 
stalked  on,  placid  and  refreshed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


The  Notnad,  entering  into  civilized  life,  adopts  its  arts, 
fhaves  his  poodle,  and  puts  on  a  black  coat.  Hints  at 
the  process  by  which  a  Cast-off  exalts  himself  into  a 
Take-in. 

At  twilight  they  stopped  at  a  quiet  inn  within 
eight  miles  of  Gatesboro'.  Sophy,  much  tired, 
was  glad  to  creep  to  bed.  Waife  sat  up  long 
after  her ;  and,  in  preparation  for  the  eventful 
moiTow,  washed  and  shaved  Sir  Isaac.  You 
would  not  have  known  the  dog  again ;  he  was 
dazzling.  Not  Ulysses,  rejuvenated  by  Pallas 
Atliene,  could  have  been  more  changed  for  the 
better.  His  flanks  revealed  a  skin  most  daintily 
mottled;  his  tail  became  leonine  with  an  impe- 
rial tuft ;  his  mane  fell  in  long  curls,  like  the 
beard  of  a  Ninevite  king ;  his  boots  were  those 
of  a  courtier  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. ;  his 
eyes  looked  forth  in  dark  splendor  from  locks 
white  as  the  driven  snow.    This  feat  performed. 


64 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Waife  slept  the  peace  of  the  righteous,  and  Sir 
Isaac  stretched  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed, 
licked  his  mottled  flanks  and  shivered — '■'■Ilfaiit 
soitffrlr  })our  itrc  beau."  Much  marveling,  So- 
phy the  next  morn  beheld  the  dog ;  but  before 
she  was  up  Waife  had  paid  the  bill  and  was 
waiting  for  her  on  the  road,  impatient  to  start. 
He  did  not  heed  her  exclamations,  half  compas- 
sionate, half  admiring ;  he  was  absorbed  in 
thought.  Thus  they  proceeded  slowly  on  till 
within  two  miles  of  the  town,  and  then  Waife 
turned  aside,  entered  a  wood,  and  there,  with 
the  aid  of  Sophy,  put  the  dog  upon  a  deliberate 
rehearsal  of  the  anticipated  drama.  The  dog 
was  not  in  good  spirits,  but  he  went  through  his 
part  with  mechanical  accuracy,  though  slight  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  He  is  to  be  relied  npon,  in  spite  of  his 
French  origin,"  said  Waife.  "  All  national 
prejudice  fades  before  the  sense  of  a  common 
interest.  And  we  shall  always  find  more  gen- 
eral solidity  of  character  in  a  French  poodle 
than  in  an  English  mastiff,  whenever  a  poodle 
is  of  use  to  us,  and  a  mastiff  is  not.  But  oh, 
waste  of  care!  oh  sacrifice  of  time  to  empty 
names  I  oh  emblem  of  fashionable  education ! 
It  never  struck  me  before — does  it  not,  child 
though  thou  art,  strike  thee  now — by  the  ne- 
cessities of  our  drama,  this  animal  must  be  a 
French  dog?" 

"Well,  grandfather?" 

"And  we  have  given  hiiji  an  English  name  ! 
Precious  result  of  our  own  scholastic  training  ; 
taught  at  preparatory  academics  jn-ecisely  that 
which  avails  us  naught  when  we  are  to  face  the 
world !  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Unlearn  him  his 
own  cognomen — teach  him  another  name  ;  too 
late,  too  late!     We  can  not  afford  the  delay." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should  be  called  any 
name  at  all.  He  observes  your  signs  just  as 
well  without." 

"If  I  had  but  discovered  that  at  the  begin- 
ning. Pity !  Such  a  fine  name,  too !  Sir  Isaac  ! 
Vaititas,  ranitatum  I  What  desire  chiefly  kindles 
the  ambitious  ?  To  create  a  name — perhaps  be- 
queath a  title — exalt  into  Sir  Isaacs  a  progeny 
of  Mops !  And  after  all,  it  is  possible  (let  us 
lu)pe  it  in  this  instance)  that  a  sensible  young 
dog  may  learn  his  letters  and  shoulder  his  mus- 
ket just  as  well  though  all  the  appellations  by 
which  humanity  knows  him  be  condensed  into 
a  pitiful  monosyllable.  Nevertheless  (as  you 
will  find  when  you  are  older),  people  are  obliged 
in  practice  to  renounce  for  themselves  the  ap- 
plication of  those  rules  which  they  philosophic- 
ally prescribe  for  others.  Thus,  while  I  grant 
that  a  change  of  name  for  that  dog  is  a  question 
belonging  to  the  policy  of  Ifs  and  Puts,  common- 
ly called  tlie  policy  of  Expediency,  about  which 
one  may  difter  with  others  and  one's  own  self 
every  quarter  of  an  hour — a  change  of  name  for 
me  belongs  to  the  policy  of  Must  and  Shall, 
viz.,  the  policy  of  Necessity,  against  which  let 
no  dog  bark,  though  I  have  known  dogs  howl  at 
it !  William  Waife  is  no  more ;  he  is  dead — 
he  is  buried ;  and  even  Juliet  Aramiuta  is  the 
baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 

Sophy  raised  inquiringly  her  blue,  guileless 
eyes. 

"  You  see  before  you  a  man  who  has  used  up 
the  name  of  Waife,  and  who,  on  entering  the  ! 
town  of  Gatesboro',  becomes  a  sober,  staid,  and  I 


respectable  personage,  under  the  appellation  of 
Chapman.  You  are  Miss  Chapman.  Rugpe  and 
his  exhibition  'leave  not  a  wrack  behind.'  " 

Sophy  smiled  and  then  sighed — the  smile  for 
her  grandfather's  gay  spirits ;  wherefore  the 
sigh  ?  Was  it  that  some  instinct  in  that  fresh, 
loyal  nature  revolted  from  the  tliought  of  these 
aliases,  which,  if  requisite  for  safety,  were  still 
akin  to  imposture.  If  so,  poor  child,  she  had 
much  yet  to  set  right  with  her  conscience  !  All 
I  can  say  is,  that  after  she  had  smiled  she  sighed. 
And  more  reasonably  might  a  reader  ask  his  au- 
thor to  subject  a  zephyr  to  the  microscope  than 
a  female's  sigh  to  analysis. 

"  Take  the  dog  with  you,  my  dear,  back  into 
the  lane ;  I  will  join  you  in  a  few  minutes.  You 
are  neatly  dressed,  and  if  not,  would  look  so.  I, 
in  this  old  coat,  have  the  air  of  a  peddler,  so  I  will 
change  it,  and  enter  the  town  of  Gatesboro'  in 
the  character  of — a  man  whom  you  will  soon  see 
before  you.  Leave  those  things  alone,  de-Isaac- 
ized  Sir  Isaac !     Follow  your  mistress — go  " 

Sophy  left  the  wood,  and  walked  on  slowly 
toward  the  town,  with  her  hand  pensively  rest- 
ing on  Sir  Isaac's  head.  In  less  than  ten  min- 
utes she  was  joined  by  Waife,  attired  in  respect- 
able black  ;  his  hat  and  shoes  well  brushed ;  a 
new  green  shade  to  his  eye  ;  and  with  his  finest 
air  oi  Pere  Noble.  He  was  now  in  his  favorite 
element.  He  avas  acting — call  it  not  impos- 
ture. Was  Lord  Chatham  an  impostor  when  he 
draped  his  flannels  into  the  folds  of  the  toga,  and 
arrayed  the  curls  of  his  wig  so  as  to  add  more 
sublime  efi'ect  to  the  majesty  of  his  brow  and 
the  terrors  of  its  nod?  And  certainly,  consid- 
ering that  Waife,  after  all,  was  but  a  ])rofessional 
vagabond — considering  all  the  turns  and  shifts  to 
which  he  has  been  put  for  bread  and  salt — the 
wonder  is,  not  that  he  is  full  of  stage  tricks  and 
small  deceptions,  but  that  he  has  contrived  to 
retain  at  heart  so  much  childish  simplicity. 
When  a  man  for  a  series  of  years  has  only  had 
his  wits  to  live  by,  I  say  not  that  he  is  neces- 
sarily a  I'ogue — he  may  be  a  good  fellow;  but 
you  can  scarcely  expect  his  code  of  honor  to 
be  precisely  the  same  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney's. 
Homer  expresses,  through  the  lii>s  of  Achilles, 
that  sublime  love  of  truth,  which,  even  in  those 
remote  times,  was  the  becoming  characteristic  of 
a  gentleman  and  a  soldier.  But,  then,  Achilles 
is  well  oft'  during  his  whole  life,  which,  though 
distinguished,  is  short.  On  the  other  hand, 
Ulysses,  who  is  sorely  put  to  it,  kept  out  of  his 
property  in  Ithaca,  and,  in  short,  living  on  his 
wits,  is  not  the  less  befriended  by  the  immacu- 
late Pallas,  because  his  wisdom  savors  somewhat 
of  stage  trick  and  sharp  practice.  And  as  to 
convenient  aliases  and  white  fibs,  where  would 
have  been  the  use  of  his  wits,  if  Ulysses  had 
disdained  such  arts,  and  been  magnanimously 
munched  up  by  Polyphemus  ?  Having  thus 
touched  on  the  epic  side  of  ilr.  Waife's  char- 
acter with  the  clemency  due  to  human  nature, 
but  with  the  caution  required  by  the  interests 
of  society,  permit  him  to  resume  a  "  duplex 
course,"  sanctioned  by  ancient  precedent,  but 
not  commended  to  modern  imitation.  Just  as 
our  travelers  neared  the  town,  the  screech  of  a 
railway  whistle  resounded  toward  their  right — 
a  long  train  rushed  from  the  jaws  of  a  tunnel, 
and  shot  into  the  neighboring  station. 

"  How  lucky  I"   exclaimed  Waife ;    "  make 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


65 


haste,  my  dear!"  Was  he  going  to  take  the 
train?  Pshaw!  he  was  at  his  journey's  end. 
lie  was  going  to  mix  with  the^hrong  that  would 
soon  stream  through  those  white  gates  into  the 
town  ;  he  was  going  to  purloin  the  respectable 
appearance  of  a  passenger  by  the  train.  And 
so  well  did  he  act  the  part  of  a  bewildered 
stranger  just  vomited  forth  into  unfamiliar 
places  by  one  of  those  panting  steam  monsters, 
so  artfully  amidst  the  busy  competition  of  nudg- 
ing elbows,  overbearing  shoulders,  and  the  im- 
pedimenta of  carpet-bags,  portmanteaus,  babies 
in  arms,  and  shin-assailing  trucks,  did  he  look 
round  consequentially  on  the  qiii  vive,  turning 
his  one  eye  now  on  Sophy,  now  on  Sir  Isaac, 
and  griping  his  bundle  to  his  breast  as  if  he 
suspected  all  his  neighbors  to  be  Thugs,  condot- 
tieri,  and  swell-mob,  that  in  an  instant  fly-men, 
omnibus-drivers,  cads,  and  porters,  marked  him 
for  their  own.  "Gatesboro'  Arms,"  "Spread 
Eagle,"  "  Royal  Hotel,"  "  Saracen's  Head," — 
very  comfortable,  centre  of  High  Street,  oppo- 
site the  "Town  Hall," — were  shouted,  bawled, 
wMspered,  or  whined  into  his  ear.  "/s  there 
an  honest  porter?"  asked  the  Comedian,  pite- 
ously.  An  Irishman  presented  himself.  "  And 
is  it  meself  can  ser\e  your  honor?" — "Take 
this  bundle,  and  walk  on  before  me  to  the  High 
Street." — "Could  not  I  take  the  bundle,  grand- 
father? The  man  will  charge  so  much,"  said 
the  prudent  Sophy.  "Hush  I  you  indeed  I" 
said  the  Phe  Aoble,  as  if  addressing  an  exiled 
Altesse  royale — "you  take  a  bundle — Miss — 
Chapman  I" 

They  soon  gained  the  High  Street.  Waife 
examined  the  fronts  of  the  various  inns  which 
they  passed  by,  with  an  eye  accustomed  to  de- 
cipher the  physiognomy  of  hostehies.  "  The 
Saracen's  Head"  pleased  him,  though  its  impos- 
ing size  daunted  Sophy.  He  arrested  the  steps 
of  the  porter,  "Follow  me  close,"  and  stepped 
across  the  open  threshold  into  the  bar.  The 
landlady  herself  was  there,  portly  and  impos- 
ing, with  an  auburn  tovpet,  a  silk  gown,  a  cameo 
brooch,  and  an  ample  bosom. 

"  You  have  a  private  sitting-room,  ma'am  ?" 
said  the  Comedian,  lifting  his  hat.  There  are 
so  many  ways  of  lifting  a  hat — for  instance,  the 
way  for  which  Louis  XIY.  was  so  renowned. 
But  the  Comedian's  way  on  the  present  occasion 
rather  resembled  that  of  the  late  Duke  of  Beau- 
fort— not  quite  royal,  but  as  near  to  royalty  as 
becomes  a  subject.  He  added,  re-covering  his 
head — "  And  on  the  first  floor  ?"  The  landlady 
did  not  courtesy,  but  she  bowed,  emerged  from 
the  bar,  and  set  foot  on  the  broad  stairs ;  then, 
looking  back  graciously,  her  eyes  rested  on  Sir 
Isaac,  who  had  stalked  forth  in  advance,  and 
with  expansive  nostrils  sniffed.  She  hesitated. 
"  Your  dog,  Sir !  shall  boots  take  it  round  to  the 
stables?" 

"The  stables,  ma'am — the  stables,  my  dear," 
turning  to  Sophy,  with  a  smile  more  ducal  than 
the  previous  bow ;  "  what  would  they  sav  at 
home  if  they  heard  that  noble  animal  was  con- 
signed to — stables  ?  Ma'am,  my  dog  is  my  com- 
panion, and  as  much  accustomed  to  drawing- 
rooms  as  I  am  myself."  Still  the  landlady 
paused.  The  dog  might  be  accustomed  to  draw- 
ing-rooms, but  her  drawing-room  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  dogs.  She  had  just  laid  down  a  new 
carpet.  And  such  are  the  strange  and  erratic 
E 


affinities  in  nature — such  are  the  incongmoos 
concatenations  in  the  cross-stitch  of  ideas,  that 
there  are  associations  between  dogs  and  carpets, 
which,  if  wrongful  to  the  owners  of  dogs,  beget 
no  unreasonable  apprehensions  in  the  proprie- 
tors of  carpets.  So  there  stood  the  landlady, 
and  there  stood  the  dog !  and  there  they  might 
be  standing  to  this  day  had  not  the  Co'median 
dissolved  the  spell.  "Take  up  my  eflfccts  again," 
said  he,  turning  to  the  porter ;  "  doubtless  they 
are  more  habituated  to  distinguish  between  dog 
and  dog  at  the  Boyal  Hotel." 
^  The  landlady  was  mollified  in  a  moment. 
Nor  was  it  only  the  rivalries  that  necessarily 
existed  between  the  Saracen's  Head  and  the 
Royal  Hotel  that  had  due  weight  with  her.  A 
gentleman  who  could  not  himself  deign  to  car- 
r}-  even  that  small  bundle,  must  be  indeed  a 
gentleman  l  Had  he  come  with  a  portmanteau 
— even  with  a  carpet-bag — the  porter's  senice 
would  have  been  no  evidence  of  rank,  but,  ac- 
customed as  she  was  chiefly  to  gentlemen  en- 
gaged in  commercial  pursuits,  it  was  new  to  her 
experience  a  gentleman  with  effects  so  light  and 
hands  so  aristocratically  helpless.  Herein  were 
equally  betokened  the  two  attributes  of  birth  and 
wealth — viz.,  the  habit  of  command,  and  the 
disdain  of  shillings.  A  vague  remembrance  of 
the  well-known  stoiy  how  a  man  and  his  dog 
had  an-ived  at  the  Granby  Hotel,  at  HaiTogate, 
and  been  sent  away  roomless  to  the  other  and 
less  patrician  establishment,  because,  wliile  he 
had  a  dog,  he  had  not  a  senant ;  when,  five 
minutes  after  such  dismissal,  came  can-iages 
and  lackeys,  and  an  imperious  valet,  asking  for 

his  grace  the  Duke  of  A ,  who  had  walked 

on  before  with  his  dog,  and  who,  oh  evei'lasting 
thought  of  remorse !  had  been  sent  away  to 
bring  the  other  establishment  into  fashion*! — a 
vague  reminiscence  of  that  stor\-,  I  say,  flashed 
upon  the  landlady's  mind,  and  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  only  thought,  Sir,  you  might  prefer  the  sta- 
bles; of  coui-se,  it  is  as  you  please — this  way, 
Sir.  He  is  a  fine  animal,  indeed,  and  seems 
mild." 

"You  may  bring  up  the  bundle,  porter,"  quoth 
the  J^ere  Noble.  "  Take  my  arm,  my  dear ; 
these  steps  are  very  steep." 

The  landlady  threw  open  the  door  of  a  hand- 
some sitting-room — her  best :  she  pulled  down 
the  blinds  to  shut  out  the  glare  of  the  sun,  then, 
retreating  to  the  threshold,  awaited  further  or- 
ders. 

"Rest  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  the  Actor, 
placing  Sophy  on  a  couch  with  that  tender  re- 
spect for  sex  and  childhood  which  so  especially 
belongs  to  the  high-bred.  '•  The  room  will  do, 
ma'am.  I  will  let  you  know  later  whether  we 
shall  require  beds.  As  to  dinner,  I  am  not  par- 
ticular— a  cutlet — a  chicken — what  you  ]Jeasc 
— at  seven  o'clock.  Stay,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
detaining  you ;  but  •where  does  the  JNIayor  live  ?" 

"His  private  residence  is  a  mile  out  of  the 
town ;  but  his  counting-house  is  just  above  the 
Town  Hal! — to  the  right.  Sir  I" 

"Name?" 

"Mr.  HartoppI" 

"  Hartopp  1  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  Ilartopp.  His  po- 
litical opinions,  I  think  are  (ventures  at  a  guess) 
enlightened  I"' 

Landlady.  "Very  much  so,  Sir.  Mr.  Har- 
topp is  highly  respected." 


66 


WHAT  WELL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Waife.  "The  chief  municipal  officer  of  a 
town  so  thriving — fine  shops  and  much  plate- 
glass— must  march  with  the  times.  I  think  I 
have  heard  that  Mr.  Hartopp  promotes  the 
spread  of  intelligence  and  the  propagation  of 
knowledge." 

Landlady  (rather  puzzled).  "I  dare  say, 
Sir.  The  Mayor  takes  great  interest  in  the 
Gatesboro'  Athenreum  and  Literary  Institute." 

Waife.  "Exactly  what  I  should  have  pre- 
sumed from  his  character  and  station.  I  will 
detain  you  no  longer,  ma'am"  (Duke  of  Beau- 
fort bow).  The  landlady  descended  the  stairs. 
Was  her  guest  a  candidate  for  the  representa- 
tion of  the  town  at  the  next  election  ?  March 
with  the  times  —  spread  of  inteUigence!  All 
candidates  she  ever  knew  had  that  way  of  ex- 
pressing themselves — "March"  and  "Spread." 
Not  an  address  had  parliamentary  aspirant  put 
forth  to  the  freemen  and  electors  of  Gatesboro', 
but  what  "March"  had  been  introduced  by  the 
candidate,  and  "  Spread"  been  siiggested  by  the 
committee.  Still  she  thought  that  her  guest, 
upon  the  whole,  looked  and  bowed  more  like 
a  member  of  the  Upper  House.  Perhaps  one 
of  the  amiable  though  occasionally  prosy  peers 
who  devote  the  teeth  of  wisdom  to  the  cracking 
of  those  very  hard  nuts — "  How  to  educate  the 
masses,"  "What  to  do  with  our  criminals,"  and 
such  like  problems,  upon  which  already  have 
been  broken  so  many  jawbones  tough  as  that 
with  which  Samson  slew  the  Philistines. 

"  Oh,  grandfather,"  sighed  Sophy,  "what  are 
you  about?  We  shall  be  ruined — you  too,  who 
are  so  careful  not  to  get  into  debt.  And  what 
have  we  left  to  pay  the  people  here  ?" 

"  Sir  Isaac  !  and  this !"  returned  the  Come- 
dian, touching  his  forehead.  "  Do  not  alarm 
yourself — stay  here  and  repose — and  don't  let 
Sir  Isaac  out  of  the  room  on  any  account !" 

He  took  off  his  hat,  brushed  the  nap  carefully 
with  his  sleeve,  replaced  it  on  his  head — not 
jauntily  aside  —  not  like  a  jetine  pretnier,  hnt 
with  equilateral  brims,  and  in  composed  fashion, 
like  a  pcre  noble — then,  making  a  sign  to  Sir 
Isaac  to  rest  quiet,  he  passed  to  the  door  ;  there 
he  halted,  and  turning  toward  Sophy,  and  meet- 
ing her  wistful  eyes,  his  own  eye  moistened. 
"Ah!"  he  murmured,  "Heaven  grant  I  may 
succeed  now,  for  if  I  do,  then  you  shall  indeed 
be  a  little  lady !" 

He  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Showing  witli  what  success  Gentleman  Waife  assumes 
the  pleasing  part  of  Friend  to  the  Enlightenment  of 
the  Age  and  the  Progress  of  the  People. 

On  the  landing-place  Waife  encountered  the 
Irish  porter,  who,  having  left  the  bundle  in  the 
drawing-room,  was  waiting  patiently  to  be  paid 
for  his  trouble. 

The  Comedian  surveyed  the  good-humored, 
shrewd  face,  on  every  line  of  which  was  writ 
the  golden  maxim,  "  Take  things  asy."    "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  friend ;  I  had  almost  forgot- 
ten you.     Have  you  been  long  in  this  town?" 
"Four  years — and  long  life  to  your  honor!" 
"Do  you  know  Mr.  Hartopp,  the  ]\Layor?" 
"Is  it  his  worship  the  Mayor?     Sure  and  it 


is  the  Mayor  as  has  made  a  man  o'  Mike  Cal- 
laghan." 

The  Comedian  Evinced  urbane  curiosity  to 
learn  the  history  of  that  process,  and  drew  forth 
a  grateful  tale.  Four  summers  ago  Mike  had 
resigned  the  "  first  gem  of  the  sea"  in  order  to 
assist  in  making  hay  for  a  Saxon  taskmakcr. 
Mr.  Hartopp,  who  farmed  largely,  had  employ- 
ed him  in  that  rural  occupation.  Seized  by  a 
malignant  fever,  Mr.  Hartopp  had  helped  him 
through  it,  and  naturally  conceived  a  liking  for 
the  man  he  helped.  Thus,  as  Mike  became 
convalescerjt,  instead  of  passing  the  poor  man 
back  to  his  own  country,  which  at  that  time 
gave  little  em]jloyment  to  the  surplus  of  its 
agrarian  population  beyond  an  occasional  shot 
at  a  parson,  an  employment,  though  animated, 
not  lucrative,  exercised  Mike's  returningstrength 
upon  a  few  light  jobs  in  his  warehouse ;  and, 
finally,  Mike  marrying  imprudently  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Gatesboro'  operative,  Mr.  Hartopp  set 
him  up  in  life  as  a  professional  messenger  and 
porter,  patronized  by  the  corporation.  The  nar- 
rative made  it  evident  that  IMr.  Hartopp  was  a 
kind  and  worthy  man,  and  the  Comedian's  heart 
warmed  toward  him. 

"  An  honor  to  our  species,  this  Mr.  Hartopp !" 
said  Waife,  striking  his  staff  upon  the  floor;  "  I 
covet  his  acquaintance.  Would  he  see  you  if 
you  called  at  his  counting-house  ?" 

Mike  replied  in  the  atfirmative,  with  eager 

I  pride,  "  i\Ir.  Hartopp  would  see  I'.im  at  once. 

Sure,  did  not  the  Mayor  know  that  time  was 

money?     Mr.  Hartopp  was  not  a  man  to  keep 

the  poor  waiting." 

"Go  down  and  stay  outside  the  hall  door; 
you  shall  take  a  note  for  me  to  the  Mayor." 

Waife  then  passed  into  the  bar,  and  begged 
the  favor  of  a  sheet  of  note-paper.  The  land- 
lady seated  him  at  her  own  desk,  and  thus  ^vrote 
the  Comedian : 

"  Mr.  Chapman  presents  his  compliments  to 
the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  and  requests  the  hon- 
or of  a  vei-y  short  interview,  ftlr.  Chapman's 
deep  interest  in  the  permanent  success  of  those 
literary  institutes  which  are  so  distinguished  a 
feature  of  this  enlightened  age,  and  Mr.  May- 
or's well-known  zeal  in  the  promotion  of  those 
invaluable  societies,  must  be  Mr.  Chapman's  ex- 
cuse for  the  liberty  he  ventures  to  take  in  this 
request.  Mr.  C.  may  add  that  of  late  he  has 
earnestly  directed  his  attention  to  the  best  means 
of  extracting  new  uses  from  those  noble  but  un- 
developed institutions. — Saracen's  Head,  etc." 

This  epistle,  duly  sealed  and  addressed,  Waife 
delivered  to  the  care  of  jMike  Callaghan — and 
simultaneously  he  astounded  that  functionary 
with  no  less  a  gratuity  than  half  a  crown.  Cut- 
ting short  the  fervent  blessings  which  this  gen- 
erous donation  naturally  called  forth,  the  Co- 
median said,  with  his  happiest  combination  of 
suavity  and  loftiness,  "  And  should  the  Mayor 
ask  you  what  sort  of  person  I  am — for  I  have 
not  the  honor  to  be  known  to  him,  and  there 
are  so  many  adventurers  about,  that  he  might 
reasonably  expect  me  to  be  one — perhaps  you' 
can  say  that  I  don't  look  like  a  person  he  need 
be  afraid  to  admit.  You  know  a  gentleman  by 
sight !  Bring  back  an  answer  as  soon  as  may 
be  ;  perhaps  I  shan't  stay  long  in  the  town.  You 
will  find  me  in  the  High  Street,  looking  at  the 
shops." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


67 


The  porter  took  to  his  legs — impatient  to  vent 
his  overflowing  heart  upon  the  praises  of  this 
munificent  stranger.  A  gentleman,  indeed  — 
jMike  should  think  so.  If  Mike's  good  word 
with  the  Mayor  was  worth  money,  Gentleman 
Waife  had  put  his  half-crown  out  upon  famous 
interest. 

The  Comedian  strolled  along  the  High  Street, 
and  stopped  before  a  stationer's  shop,  at  the  win- 
dow of  which  was  displayed  a  bill,  entitled, 

GATESBOEO'  ATIIEXiECJI  AND  LITEKAEY 
INSTITLTK. 


LECTLTiE  OX  COXCHOLOGY, 
By  Professor  Losg, 

Author  of  "  Kesearclies  into  the  Natural  History  of 
Limpets." 

Waife  entered  the  shop,  and  lifted  his  hat —  | 
•'Permit  me,  Sir,  to  look  at  that  hand-bill."  j 
"  Certainly,  Sir ;  but  the  lecture  is  over — you 
can  see  by  the  date  ;  it  came  oft'  last  week.  We  | 
allow  the  bills  of  previous  proceedings  at  our 
AtheniEum  to  be  exposed  at  the  window  till  the  ', 
new  bills  are  prepared  —  keeps  the  whole  thing  , 
a\ive.  Sir."  i 

"  Conchology,"  said  the  Comedian,  "  is  a  sub-  I 
ject  which  requires  deep  research,  and  on  which  ' 
a  learned  man  may  say  much  without  fear  of  i 
contradiction.     But  how  far  is  Gatesboro'  from 
the  British  Ocean  ?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  Sir — a  long  way." 
"  Then,  as  shells  are  not  familiar  to  the  youth- 
ful remembrances  of  your  fellow-townsmen,  pos- 
sibly the  lecturer  may  have  found  an  audience 
rather  select  than  numerous." 

"  It  was  a  very  attentive  audience.  Sir  —  and 
highly  respectabie —  ^liss  Grieve's  young  ladies 
(the  genteelest  seminary  in  tlie  town)  attended." 
Waife.  "Highly  creditable  to  the  young  la- 
dies. But,  pardon  me,  is  your  Athenaum  a 
Mechanics'  Institute?" 

Shopman'.  "It  was  so  called  at  first.  But, 
somehow  or  other,  the  mere  operatives  fell  oft", 
and  it  was  thought  advisable  to  change  the  word 
'Mechanics'  into  the  word  'Literary.'  Gates- 
boro' is  not  a  manufacturing  town,  and  the 
mechanics  here  do  not  realize  the  expectations 
of  that  taste  for  abstract  science  on  which  the 
originators  of  these  societies  founded  their — " 

Waife  (insinuatingly  interrupting).  "  Their 
calculations  of  intellectual  progress  and  their 
tables  of  pecuniary  return.  Few  of  these  soci- 
eties, I  am  told,  are  really  self-supporting  —  I 
suppose  Professor  Long  is!  —  and  if  he  resides 
in  Gatesboro',  and  writes  on  limpets,  he  is  prob- 
ably a  man  of  independent  fortune." 

Shopman.  "  Why,  Sir,  the  Professor  ■was  en- 
gaged from  London — five  guineas  and  his  trav- 
eling expenses.  The  funds  of  the  society  could 
ill  artbrd  such  outlay ;  but  we  have  a  most  wor- 
thy Mavor,  who,  assisted  by  his  foreman,  Mr. 
Williams,  our  treasurer,  is,  I  may  say,  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  institute." 

"A  literary  man  himself,  your  Mayor?" 
The  shopman  smiled.  "Not  much  in  that 
wav.  Sir ;  but  any  thing  to  enlighten  the  work- 
ing classes.  This  is  Professor  Long's  great  work 
upon  limpets,  2  vols,  post  octavo.  The  Mayor  has 
just  presented  it  to  the  library  of  the  Institute.  I 
was  cutting  the  leaves  when  you  came  in." 
"Very  prudent  in  you,  Sir.     If  limpets  were 


but  able  to  read  printed  character  in  the  En- 
glish tongue,  this  work  would  have  more  inter- 
est for  them  than  the  ablest  investigations  upon 
the  political  and  social  condition  of  man.  But," 
added  the  Comedian,  shaking  his  head  mourn- 
fully, "  the  human  species  is  not  testaceous  — 
and  what  the  history  of  man  might  be  to  a  lim- 
pet, the  history  of  limpets  is  to  a  man."  So  say- 
ing, Mr.  Waife  bought  a  sheet  of  card-board  and 
some  gilt-foil,  relifted  his  hat,  and  walked  out. 
The  shopman  scratched  his  head  thoughtful- 
ly; he  glanced  from  his  window  at  the  form  of 
the  receding  stranger,  and  mechanically  re- 
sumed the  task  of  cutting  those  leaves,  which, 
had  the  volumes  reached  the  shelves  of  the  li- 
brary uncut,  would  have  so  remained  to  the 
crack  of  doom. 

Mike  Callaghan  now  came  in  sight,  striding 
fast.  "  Mr.  Mayor  sends  his  love  —  bother-o"- 
me — his  respex ;  and  will  be  happy  to  see  your 
honor." 

In  three  minutes  more  the  Comedian  was 
seated  in  a  little  ])arlor  that  adjoined  Mr.  Har- 
topp's  counting-house — Mr.  Hartopp  seated  also, 
vis-d-vis.  The  Maj'or  had  one  of  those  coun- 
tenances upon  which  good-nature  throws  a  sun- 
shine softer  than  Claude  ever  shed  upon  can- 
vas. Josiah  Hartopp  had  risen  in  life  by  little 
other  art  than  that  of  quiet  kindliness.  As  a 
boy  at  school,  he  had  been  ever  ready  to  do  a 
good  turn  to  his  school-fellows ;  and  his  school- 
fellows at  last  formed  themselves  into  a  kind  of 
police,  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  Jos.  Har- 
topp's  pence  and  person  from  the  fists  and  fin- 
gers of  each  other.  He  was  evidently  so  anx- 
ious to  please  his  master,  not  from  fear  of  the 
rod,  but  the  desire  to  spare  that  worthy  man  the 
pain  of  inflicting  it,  that  he  had  more  trouble 
taken  with  his  education  than  was  bestowed  on 
the  brightest  intellect  that  school  ever  reared; 
and  where  other  boys  were  roughly  flogged,  Jos. 
Hartopp  was  soothingly  patted  on  the  head,  and 
told  not  to  be  cast  down,  but  try  again.  The 
same  even-handed  justice  returned  the  sugared 
chalice  to  his  lips  in  his  apprenticeship  to  an 
austere  leather-seller,  who,  not  bearing  the 
thought  to  lose  sight  of  so  mild  a  face,  raised 
him  into  partnership,  and  ultimately  made  him 
his  son-in-law  and  residuary  legatee.  Then  Mr. 
Hartopp  yielded  to  the  advice  of  friends  who  de- 
sired his  exaltation,  and  from  a  leather-seller 
became  a  tanner.  Hides  themselves  softened 
their  asperity  to  that  gentle  dealer,  and  melted 
into  golden  fleeces.  He  became  rich  enough  to 
hire  a  farm  for  health  and  recreation.  He  knew 
little  of  husbandry,  but  he  won  the  heart  of  a 
I  bailift'  who  might  have  reared  a  turni])  from  a 
deal  table.  Gradually  the  farm  became  his  fee- 
'  simple,  and  the  farm-house  expanded  into  a  villa. 
Wealth  and  honors  flowed  in  from  a  brimmed 
horn.  The  surliest  man  in  the  town  would  have 
been  ashamed  of  saying  a  rude  tiling  to  Jos. 
Hartopp.  If  he  spoke  in  public,  though  he 
hummed  and  hawed  lamentably,  no  one  was  so 
respectfully  listened  to.  As  for  the  parliament- 
ary representation  of  the  town  he  could  have  re- 
!  turned  himself  for  one  seat  and  Mike  Callaghan 
for  the  other,  had  he  been  so  disposed.  But  he 
was  too  full  of  the  milk  of  humanity  to  admit 
into  his  veins  a  drop  from  the  gall  of  party.  He 
suffered  others  to  legislate  for  his  native  land, 
and  (except  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  been 


68 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


persuaded  to  assist  in  canvassing  not  indeed  the 
electors  of  Gatesboro'  but  those  of  a  distant 
town  in  which  he  possessed  some  influence,  on 
behalf  of  a  certain  eminent  orator),  Jos.  Har- 
topp  was  only  visible  in  politics  whenever  Par- 
liament was  "to  be  petitioned  in  favor  of  some 
humane  measure,  or  against  a  tax  that  would 
have  harassed  the  poor. 

If  any  thing  went  wrong  with  him  in  his  busi- 
ness, the  whole  town  combined  to  set  it  right 
for  him.  Was  a  child  born  to  him,  Gatesboro' 
rejoiced  as  a  mother.  Did  measles  or  scarlatina 
afflict  his  neighborhood,  the  first  anxiety  of 
Gatesboro'  was  for  Mr.  Hartopp's  nursery.  No 
one  would  have  said  Mrs.  Hartopp's  nursery; 
and  when  in  such  a  department  the  man's  name 
supersedes  the  woman's,  can  more  be  said  in 
proof  of  the  tenderness  he  excites  ?  In  short, 
Jos.  Hartopp  was  a  notable  instance  of  a  truth 
not  commonly  recognized,  viz.,  that  aflection  is 
})0wer,  and  that,  if  you  do  make  it  thoroughly 
and  unequivocally  clear  that  you  love  your  neigh- 
bors, though  it  may  not  be  quite  so  well  as  you 
love  yourself — still,  cordially  and  disinterestedly, 
vou  will  find  your  neighbors  much  better  fellows 
"than  Mrs.  Grundy  gives  them  credit  for — but 
always  provided  that  your  talents  be  not  such  as 
to  excite  their  envy,  nor  your  opinions  such  as 
to  offend  their  prejudices. 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "You  take  an  interest,  you 
say,  in  literary  iustitutes,  and  have  studied  the 
subject?"' 

The  Comediax.  "Of  late,  those  institutes 
liave  occupied  my  thoughts  as  presenting  the 
readiest  means  of  collecting  liberal  ideas  into  a 
profitable  focus." 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Certainly  it  is  a  great  thing 
to  bring  classes  together  in  friendly  union." 
The  Comedian-.  "For  laudable  objects." 
Mr.   Hartopp.   "To   cultivate   their  under- 
standings." 

The  Comedian.  "  To  warm  their  hearts." 
Mr.  Hartopp.  "To  give  them  useful  knowl- 
edge." 

The  Comedian.  "And  pleasurable  sensa- 
tions." 

Mr.  Hartopp.   "  In  a  word,  to  instruct  them." 
The  Comedian.   "And  to  amuse." 
"  Eh  I"  said  the  Mayor — "  amuse !" 
Now,  every  one  about  the  person  of  this  ami- 
able man  was  on  the  constant  guard  to  save  him 
from  the  injurious  effects  of  his  own  benevo- 
lence ;    and  accordingly  his  foreman,  hearing 
that  he  was  closeted  with  a  stranger,  took  alarm, 
and  entered  on  pretense  of  asking  instructions 
about  an  order  for  hides — in  reality,  to  glower 
upon  the  intruder,  and  keep  his  master's  hands 
out  of  imprudent  pockets. 

Mr.  Hartopp,  who,  though  not  brilliant,  did 
not  want  for  sense,  and  was  a  keener  observer 
than  was  generally  supposed,  divined  the  kindly 
intentions  of  his  assistant.  "A  gentleman  in- 
terested in  the  Gatesboro'  Athenajum.  My  fore- 
man, Sir — ilr.  Williams,  the  treasurer  of  our 
Institute.     Take  a  chair,  Williams." 

"You  said  to  amuse,  Mr.  Chapman,  but — " 
"You  did  not  find  Professor  Long  on  con- 
chology  amusing?" 

"Why,"  said  the  Mayor,  smiling  blandly,  "I 
myself  am  not  a  man  of  science,  and  therefore 
his  lecture  though  profound,  was  a  little  dry  to 
me." 


"  Must  it  not  have  been  still  more  dry  to  your 
workmen,  ]\Ir.  Mayor?" 

"  They  did  not  attend,"  said  WilUams.  "  Up- 
hill task  Me  have  to  secure  the  Gatesboro'  me- 
chanics, when  any  thing  really  solid  is  to  be  ad- 
dressed to  their  understandings." 

"Poor  things,  they  are  so  tired  at  night,"  said 
the  Mayor,  compassionately  ;  "but  they  wish  to 
improve  themselves,  and  they  take  books  from 
the  library." 

"  Novels,"  quoth  the  stern  Williams — "  it  will 
be  long  before  they  take  out  that  valuable  '  His- 
tory of  Limpets.' " 

"  If  a  lecture  was  as  amusing  as  a  novel, 
would  not  they  attend  it?"  asked  the  Come- 
dian. 

"I  suppose  they  would,"  returned  Mr.  Will- 
iams. "But  our  object  is  to  instruct;  and  in- 
struction. Sir — " 

"  Could  be  made  amusing.  If,  for  instance, 
the  lecturer  could  produce  a  live  shell-fish,  and 
by  showing  what  kindness  can  do  toward  devel- 
oping intellect  and  aflection  in  beings  without 
soul,  make  man  himself  more  kind  to  his  fellow- 
man  ?" 

Mr.  Williams  laughed  grimly.     "Well,  Sir." 

"This  is  what  I  should  propose  to  do." 

"  With  a  shell-fish  I"  cried  the  Mayor. 

"  No,  Sir ;  with  a  creature  of  nobler  attributes 
A  DOG  I" 

The  listeners  stared  at  each  other  like  dumb 
animals  as  Waife  continued  : 

"  By  winning  interest  for  the  individuality  of 
a  gifted  quadruped,  I  should  gradually  create 
interest  in  the  natural  histon.-  of  its  species.  I 
should  lead  the  audience  on  to  listen  to  compar- 
isons with  other  members  of  the  great  family 
which  once  associated  with  Adam.  I  should 
lay  the  foundation  for  an  instructive  course  of 
natural  history,  and  from  vertebrated  mammi- 
fers  who  knows  but  we  might  gradually  arrive 
at  the  nervous  system  of  the  molluscous  division, 
and  produce  a  sensation  by  the  production  of  a 
limpet  I" 

"Theoretical,"  said  Mr.  Williams. 

"  Practical,  Sir ;  since  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  the  Athenceum,  at  present,  is  rather  a  tax 
upon  the  richer  subscribers,  including  Mr.  May- 
or." 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,"  said  the  mild  Hartopp. 
Williams  looked  toward  his  master  with  un- 
speakable love,  and  groaned.  "  Nothing  indeed 
—oh !" 

"These  societies  should  be  wholly  self-sup- 
porting," said  the  Comedian,  "  and  inflict  no  pe- 
cuniary loss  upon  ilr.  [Mayor." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Williams,  "  that  is  the  right 
principle.     Sir.  ]\Ii-.yor  should  be  protected." 

"  And  if  I  show  you  how  to  make  these  soci- 
eties self-supporting — " 

"  We  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  I  propose,  then,  to  give  an  exhibition  at  your 
rooms." 

Mr.  Williams  nudged  the  Mayor,  and  coughed, 
the  Comedian  not  appearing  to  remark  cough 
or  nudge. 

"  Of  course  gratuitously.  I  am  not  a  profes- 
sional lecturer,  gentlemen." 

Mr.  Williams  looked  charmed  to  hear  it. 

"  And  when  I  have  made  my  first  effort  suc- 
cessful, as  I  feel  sure  it  will  be,  I  will  leave  it  to 
you,  gentlemen,  to  continue  my  undertaking. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WTTK  IT  ? 


69 


But  I  can  not  stay  long  here.     If  the  day  after 
to-morrow — " 

"That  is  our  ordinary  soirie  night,"  said  the 
Mavor.  "But  you  said  a  dog,  Sir — dogs  not 
admitted — Eh,  Williams  ?" 

Mr.  Williams.  '"A  mere  by-law,  which  the 
sub-committee  can  suspend  if  necessary.  But 
would  not  the  introduction  of  a  live  animal  be 
less  dignified  than — " 

"  A  dead  failure,"  put  in  the  Comedian,  grave- 
ly. The  Mayor  would  have  smiled,  but  he  was 
afraid  of  doing  so  lest  it  might  hurt  the  feelings 
of  Mr.  Williams,  who  did  not  seem  to  take  the 
joke. 

"We  are  a  purely  intellectual  body,"  said 
that  latter  gentleman,  "  and  a  dog — " 

"A  learned  dog,  I  presume?"  observed  the 
Mayor. 

Mr.  Williams  (nodding).  "Might  form  a  dan- 
gerous precedent  for  the  introduction  of  other 
quadrupeds.  We  might  thus  descend  even  to 
the  level  of  a  learned  pig.  We  are  not  a  men- 
agerie, i\Ir. — Mr. — " 

"Chapman,"  said  the  Mayor,  urbanely. 
"  Enough,"  said  the  Comedian,  rising,  with 
his  gi-and  air :  "  if  I  considered  myself  at  liberty, 
gentlemen,  to  say  who  and  what  I  am,  you  would 
be  sure  that  I  am  not  trifling  with  what  /con- 
sider a  very  grave  and  important  subject.  As  to 
suggesting  any  thing  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
of  science,  and  the  eminent  repute  of  the  Gates- 
boro'  Athena?um,  it  would  be  idle  to  vindicate 
myself.     These  gray  hairs  are — " 

He  did  not  conclude  that  sentence,  save  by  a 
slight  wave  of  the  hand.  The  two  burgesses 
bowed  reverentially,  and  the  Comedian  went 
on: 

"  But  when  you  speak  of  precedent,  Mr.  Will- 
iams, allow  me  to  refer  you  to  precedents  in 
point.  Aristotle  wrote  to  Alexander  the  Great 
for  animals  to  exhibit  to  the  Literary  Institute 
of  Athens.  At  the  colleges  in  Egypt  lectures 
were  delivered  on  a  dog  called  Anubis,  as  in- 
ferior, I  boldly  assert,  to  that  dog  which  I  have 
referred  to,  as  an  Egyptian  College  to  a  British 
Institute.  The  ancient  Etrurians,  as  is  shown 
by  the  erudite  Schweighaeuser,  in  that  passage 
— you  understand  Greek,  I  presume,  Mr.  Will- 
iams?" 

Mr.  Williams  could  not  say  he  did. 
The  Comedian.  "Then  I  will  not  quote  that 
passage  in  Schweighteuser  upon  the  Molossian 
dogs  in  general,  and  the  dog  of  Alcibiades  in 
particular.  But  it  proves  beyond  a  doubt  that, 
in  every  ancient  literary  institute,  learned  dogs 
were  highly  estimated ;  and  there  was  even  a 
philosophical  academy  called  the  Cynic — that 
is,  Doggish,  or  Dog-school,  of  which  Diogenes 
was  the  most  eminent  professor.  He,  you  know, 
went  about  with  a  lantern  looking  for  an  honest 
man,  and  could  not  find  one !  Why  ?  Because 
the  Society  of  Dogs  had  raised  his  standard  of 
human  honesty  to  an  impracticable  height.  But 
I  weary  you ;  otherwise  I  could  lecture  on  in 
this  way  "for  the  hour  together,  if  you  think  the 
Gatesboro'  operatives  prefer  erudition  to  amuse- 
ment." 

"A  great  scholar,"  whispered  Mr.  Williams 
aloud.  "And  I've  nothing  to  say  against  j-our 
precedents.  Sir.  I  think  you  have  made  out 
that  part  of  the  case.  But,  after  all,  a  learned 
dog  is  not  so  very  uncommon  as  to  be  in  itself 


the  striking  attraction  which  you  appear  to  sup- 
pose." 

"It  is  not  the  mere  learning  of  my  dog  of 
which  I  boast,"  replied  the  Comedian.  "Dogs 
may  be  learned,  and  men  too ;  but  it  is  the  way 
that  learning  is  imparted,  whether  by  dog  or 
man,  for  the  edification  of  the  masses,  in  order, 
as  Pope  expresses  himself,  'to  raise  the  genius 
and  to  mend  the  heart,'  that  alone  adorns  the 
possessor,  exalts  the  species,  interests  the  pub- 
lic, and  commands  the  respect  of  such  judges  as 
I  see  before  me."     The  grand  bow. 

"  Ah  1"  said  Jlr.  Williams,  hesitatingly,  "  sen- 
timents that  do  honor  to  your  head  and  heart ; 
and  if  we  could,  in  the  first  instance,  just  see  the 
dog  privately." 

"Nothing  easier !" said  the  Comedian.  "Will 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  meet  him  at  tea  this 
evening?" 

"Rather  will  you  not  come  and  take  tea  at 
my  house  ?"  said  the  Mayor,  with  a  shy  glance 
toward  Mr.  Williams. 

The  Comedian.  "  You  are  very  kind  ;  but  my 
time  is  so  occupied  that  I  have  long  since  made 
it  a  rule  to  decline  all  private  invitations  out  of 
my  own  home.  At  my  years,  Mr.  Slayor,  one 
may  be  excused  for  taking  leave  of  society  and 
its  forms ;  but  j^ou  are  comparatively  young 
men.  I  presume  on  the  authority  of  these  gray 
hairs,  and  I  shall  expect  you  this  evening — say 
at  nine  o'clock."  The  Actor  waved  his  hand 
gi'aciously  and  withdrew. 

"A  scholar  and  a  gentleman,"  said  Williams, 
emphatically.  And  the  Mayor,  thus  authorized 
to  allow  vent  to  his  kindly  heart,  added,  "A  hu- 
morist, and  a  pleasant  one.  Perhaps  he  is  right, 
and  our  poor  operatives  would  thank  us  more 
for  a  little  innocent  amusement  than  for  those 
lectures,  which  they  may  be  excused  for  think- 
ing rather  dull,  since  even  you  fell  asleep  when 
Professor  Long  got  into  the  multilocular  shell 
of  the  very  first  class  of  cephalous  moUusca ; 
and  it  is  my  belief  that  harmless  laughter  has  a 
moral  effect  upon  the  working  class — only  don't 
spread  it  about  that  I  said  so,  for  we  know  excel- 
lent persons  of  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  whose 
opinions  that  sentiment  might  shock." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


HiSTOEiCAi  Teoblem.  "  Is  Gentleman  W'aife  a  swin- 
dler or  a  man  of  genius?"  Akswee — '"Certainly  a 
swindler,  if  he  don't  succeed."  Julius  Ciesar  owed 
two  millions  when  ho  risked  the  experiment  of  being 
general  in  Gaul.  If  Julius  Cassar  had  not  lived  to  cross 
the  Rubicon  and  pay  off  his  debts,  what  would  his 
creditors  have  called  Julius  Casar? 

I  need  not  say  that  Mr.  Hartopp  and  his  fore- 
man came  duly  to  tea,  but  the  Comedian  ex- 
hibited Sir  Isaac's  talents  veiy  sparingly — ^just 
enough  to  excite  admiration  without  sating  cu- 
riosity. Sophy,  whose  pretty  face  and  well-bred 
air  were  not  unappreciated,  was  dismissed  early 
to  bed  by  a  sign  from  her  grandfather,  and  the 
Comedian  then  exerted  his  powers  to  entertain 
his  visitors,  so  that  even  Sir  Isaac  was  soon  for- 
gotten. Hard  task,  by  writing,  to  convey  a  fair 
idea  of  this  singular  vagrant's  pleasant  vein.  It 
was  not  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  way  of  say- 
ing it,  which  gave  to  his  desultory  talk  the  charm 
of  humor.     He  had  certainly  seen  an  immense 


70 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


deal  of  life  somehow  or  other ;  and  without  ap- 
pearing at  the  time  to  profit  much  by  observation, 
without  perhaps  being  himself  conscious  that 
he  did  profit,  there  was  something  in  the  very 
enfantillage  of  his  loosest  prattle,  by  which,  with 
a  glance  of  the  one  lustrous  eye,  and  a  twist  of 
the  mobile  lip,  he  could  convey  the  impression 
of  an  original  genius  playing  with  this  round 
world  of  ours — tossing  it  up,  catching  it  again — 
easily  as  a  child  plays  with  his  party-colored  ball. 
His  mere  book-knowledge  was  not  much  to  boast  ] 
of,  though  early  in  life  he  must  have  received  a 
fair  education.  He  had  a  smattering  of  the  an- 
cient classics,  sufficient,  perhaps,  to  startle  the 
unlearned.  If  he  had  not  read  them,  he  had 
read  about  them  ;  and  at  various  odds  and  ends 
of  his  life  he  had  picked  up  acquaintance  with 
the  popular  standard  modern  writers.  But  lit- 
erature with  him  was  the  smallest  stripe  in  the 
party-colored  ball.  Still  it  was  astonishing  how- 
far  and  wide  the  Comedian  could  spread  the 
sands  of  lore  that  the'  winds  had  drifted  round 
the  door  of  his  playful,  busy  intellect.  Where, 
for  instance,  could  he  ever  have  studied  the  na- 
ture and  prospects  of  Mechanics'  Institutes?  and 
yet  how  well  he  seemed  to  understand  them. 
Here,  perhaps,  his  experience  in  one  kind  of 
audience  helped  him  to  the  key  to  all  miscella- 
neous assemblages.  In  fine,  the  man  was  an 
actor:  and  if  he  had  thought  fit  to  act  the  part 
of  Professor  Long  himself,  he  would  have  done 
it  to  the  life. 

The  two  burghers  had  not  spent  so  pleasant  an 
evening  for  many  years.  As  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  the  Mayor,  whose  gig  had  been  in  wait- 
ing a  whole  hour  to  take  him  to  his  villa,  rose 
reluctantly  to  depart. 

"And,"  said  Williams,  "  the  bills  must  be  out 
to-morrow.     What  shall  we  advertise  ?" 

"  The  simpler  the  better,"  said  Waife ;  "  only 
pray  head  the  performance  with  the  assurance 
that  it  is  imder  the  special  patronage  of  his 
worship  the  Mayor." 

The  Mayor  felt  his  breast  swell  as  if  he  had 
received  some  overwhelming  personal  obligation. 

"  Suppose  it  runs  thus,"  continued  the  Co- 
median : 

'•Illustrations  from  Domestic  Life  and  Nat- 
ural Historv,  with  live  examples,  Part  Fikst — 
The  Dog  T' 

"It  will  take,"  said  the  Mayor;  "dogs  are 
such  popular  animals !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Williams  ;  "  and  though  for  that 
very  reason  some  might  think  that  by  the  '  live 
example  of  a  dog'  we  compromised  the  dignity 
of  the  Institute — still  the  importance  of  Nat- 
ural History — " 

"And,"  added  the  Comedian,  "the  sanctify- 
ing influences  of  domestic  life — " 

"  May,"  concluded  Mr.  Williams,  "  carry  off 
whatever  may  seem  to  the  higher  order  of 
minds  a  too  familiar  attraction  in  the — dog!" 

"I  do  not  fear  the  result,"  said  Waife,  "pro- 
vided the  audience  be  sufficiently  numerous ; 
for  that  (which  is  an  indispensable  condition  to 
a  fair  experiment),  I  issue  handbills  —  only 
where  distributed  by  the  ilayor." 

"Don't  be  too  sanguine.  I  distributed  bills 
on  behalf  of  Professor  Long,  and  the  audience 
was  not  numerous.  However,  I  will  do  my  best. 
Is  there  nothing  more  in  which  1  can  be  of  use 
to  you,  Mr.  Chapman  ?" 


"Yes,  later."  Williams  took  alarm  and  ap- 
proached the  Mayor's  breast-pocket  protecting- 
ly.  The  Comedian  drew  him  aside  and  whis- 
pered, "I intend  to  give  the  Mayor  a  little  out- 
line of  the  exhibition,  and  bring  him  into  it,  in 
order  that  his  fellow-townsmen  may  signify 
their  regard  for  hira  by  a  cheer ;  it  will  please 
his  good  heart  and  be  touching,  you'll  see — 
mum  1"  Williams  shook  the  Comedian  by  the 
hand,  relieved,  aftected,  and  confiding. 

The  visitors  departed ;  and  the  Comedian 
lighted  his  hand-candlestick,  whistled  to  Sir 
Isaac,  and  went  to  bed,  without  one  compunc- 
tious thought  upon  the  growth  of  his  bill  and 
the  deficit  in  his  pockets.  And  yet  it  was  true, 
as  Sophy  implied,  that  the  Comedian  had  an 
honest  horror  of  incurring  debt.  He  generally 
thought  twice  before  he  risked  owing  even  the 
most  trifling  bill ;  and  when  the  bill  came  in,  if 
it  left  him  penniless,  it  was  paid.  And  now, 
what  reckless  extravagance!  The  best  apart- 
ments !  dinners — tea — in  the  first  hotel  of  the 
town!  half  a  crown  to  a  porter!  That  lavish 
mode  of  life  renewed  with  the  dawning  sun ! — 
not  a  care  for  the  morrow ;  and  I  dare  not  con- 
jecture how  few  the  shillings  in  that  purse. 
What  aggravation,  too,  of  guilt !  Bills  incurred 
without  means  under  a  borrowed  name!  I 
don't  pretend  to  be  a  lawyer;  but  it  looks  to 
me  very  much  like  swindling.  Yet  the  wretch 
sleeps.  But  are  we  sure  that  we  are  not  shal- 
low moralists  ?  Do  we  cany  into  account  the 
right  of  genius  to  draw  bills  upon  the  Future  ? 
Does  not  the  most  prudent  general  sometimes 
biu'n  his  ships?  Does  not  the  most  upright 
merchant  sometimes  take  credit  on  the  chance 
of  his  ventures  ?  May  not  that  peaceful  slum- 
berer  be  morally  sure  that  he  has  that  argosy 
afloat  in  his  own  head,  which  amply  justifies  his 
use  of  "  the  Saracen's  ?"  If  his  plan  should 
fail  ?  He  will  tell  you  that  is  impossible !  But 
if  it  should  fail,  you  say.  Listen  ;  there  runs  a 
story — (I  don't  vouch  for  its  truth.  I  tell  it  as 
it  was  told  to  me) — there  runs  a  story,  that  in 
the  late  Eussian  war  a  certain  naval  veteran, 
renowned  for  professional  daring  and  scientific 
invention,  was  examined  before  some  great  of- 
ficials as  to  the  chances  of  taking  Cronstadt. 
"  If  you  send  me,"  said  the  admiral,  "  with  so 
many  ships-of-the-line,  and  so  many  gun-boats, 
Cronstadt,  of  course,  wiU  be  taken."  "  But," 
said  a  prudent  lord,  "  suppose  it  should  net  be 
taken?"  "That  is  impossible — it  must  be  tak- 
en!" "Yes,"  persisted  my  lord,  "you  think 
so,  no  doubt ;  but  still,  if  it  should  not  be  taken 
— what  then  ?"  "  What  then ! — why,  there's  an 
end  of  the  British  fleet !"  The  great  men  took 
alarm,  and  that  admiral  was  not  sent.  But  they 
misconstrued  the  meaning  of  his  answer.  He 
meant  not  to  imply  any  considerable  danger  to 
the  British  fleet.  He  meant  to  prove  that  one 
hypothesis  was  impossible  by  the  suggestion  of 
a  counter  impossibility  more  self-evident.  "  It 
is  impossible  but  what  I  shall  take  Cronstadt  I" 
"But  if  you  don't  take  it?'  "It  is  impossible 
but  what"  I  shall  take  it ;  for  if  I  don't  take  it, 
there's  an  end  of  the  British  fleet ;  and  as  it  is 
impossible  that  there  should  be  an  end  of  the 
British  fleet,  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  not 
take  Cronstadt  I" — Q.E.D. 


"«aiAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


71 


CHAPTER  XII. 

In  -n-hich  every  thing  depends  on  Sir  Isaac's  success  in 
discovering  the  Law  of  Attraction. 

On  the  appointed  evening,  at  eight  o'clock, 
the  great  room  of  the  Gatesboro'  Athenreum  was  | 
unusually  well  tilled.  Not  only  had  the  Mayor 
exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  for  tliat  object, 
but  the  handbill  itself  promised  a  rare  relief 
from  the  jjrosiness  of  abstract  enlightenment 
and  elevated  knowledge.  Moreover,  the  stran- 
ger himself  had  begun  to  excite  speculation  and 
curiosity.  He  was  an  amateur,  not  a  ciit-and- 
dry  professor.  The  Mayor  and  Mr.  "Williams 
had  both  sj^read  the  report  that  there  was  more 
in  him  than  appeared  on  the  surface :  prodig- 
iously learned,  but  extremely  agreeable  —  fine 
manners,  too  !  Who  could  he  be  ?  Was  Chap- 
man his  real  name?  etc.,  etc. 

The  Comedian  had  obtained  permission  to 
arrange  the  room  beforehand.  He  had  the 
raised  portion  of  it  for  his  stage,  and  he  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  green  curtain 
to  be  drawn  across  it.  From  behind  this  screen 
he  now  emerged,  and  bowed.  The  bow  re- 
doubled the  first  conventional  applause.  He 
then  began  a  very  short  address  —  extremely 
well  delivered,  as  you  may  suppose,  but  rather 
in  the  conversational  than  the  oratorical  style. 
He  said  it  was  his  object  to  exhibit  the  intel- 
ligence of  that  Universal  Friend  of  Man — the 
Dog  —  in  some  manner  approjniate,  not  only 
to  its  sagacious  instincts,  but  to  its  affectionate 
nature,  and  to  convey  thereby  the  moral  that 
talents,  however  great,  learning,  however  deep, 
were  of  no  avail,  unless  rendered  serviceable  to 
Man.  (Applause.)  He  must  be  pardoned,  then, 
if,  in  order  to  effect  this  object,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  borrow  some  harmless  effects  from  the 
stage.  In  a  word,  his  Dog  would  represent  to 
them  the  plot  of  a  little  drama.  And  he,  though 
he  could  not  say  that  he  was  altogether  unac- 
customed to  public  speaking  (here  a  smile,  mod- 
est, but  august  as  that  of  some  famous  parlia- 
mentan,-  orator  who  makes  his  first  appearance 
at  a  vestry),  still  wholly  new  to  its  practice  in 
the  special  part  he  had  undertaken,  would  rely 
on  their  indulgence  to  efforts  aspiring  to  no  oth- 
er merit  than  that  of  aiding  the  Hero  of  the 
piece  in  a  familiar  illustration  of  those  qualities 
in  which  Dogs  might  give  a  lesson  to  Human- 
ity. Again  he  bowed,  and  retired  behind  the 
curtain.  A  pause  of  three  minutes ;  the  cur- 
tain drew  up.  Could  that  be  the  same  Mr. 
Chapman  whom  the  spectators  beheld  before 
them?  Could  three  minutes  suflSce  to  change 
the  sleek,  respectable,  prosperous-looking  gen- 
tleman who  had  just  addressed  them,  info  that 
image  of  threadbare  poverty  and  hunger-pinch- 
ed dejection?  Little  aid  "from  theatrical  cos- 
tume :  the  clothes  seemed  the  same,  only  to 
have  grown  wondrous  aged  and  rusty.  The 
face,  the  figure,  the  man — these  had  utidergone 
a  transmutation  beyond  the  art  of  a  mere  stage 
wardrobe,  be  it  ever  so  amply  stored,  to  eftect. 
But  for  the  patch  over  the  eye  you  could  not 
have  recognized  Mr.  Chapman.  There  was.  in- 
deed, about  him  still  an  air  of  dignity;  but  it 
was  the  dignity  of  woe  —  a  dignity,  too,  not  of 
an  affable  civilian,  but  of  some  veteran  soldier. 
You  could  not  mistake.  Though  not  in  uni- 
form, the  melancholy  man  must  have  been  a 


warrior !  The  way  the  coat  was  buttoned  across 
the  chest,  the  black  stock  tightened  round  the 
throat,  the  shoulders  thrown  back  in  the  disci- 
plined habit  of  a  life,  though  the  head  bent  for- 
ward in  the  despondency  of  an  eventful  crisis — 
all  spoke  the  decayed,  but  not  ignoble,  hero  of  a 
hundred  fields. 

There  was  something  foreign,  too,  about  the 
veteran's  air.  Mr.  Chapman  had  looked  so 
thoroughly  English  —  that  tragical  and  meagre 
personage,  which  had  exfoliated  an  arid  stem 
from  Mr.  Chapman's  buxom  leaves,  looked  so 
unequivocally  French.  Not  a  word  had  the 
Comedian  yet  said;  and  yet  all  this  had  the 
first  sight  of  him  conveyed  to  the  audience. 
There  was  an  amazed  murmur,  then  breathless 
stillness.  The  story  rapidly  unfolded  itself, 
partly  by  words,  much  more  by  look  and  action. 
There  sate  a  soldier  who  had  fought  under  Na- 
poleon at  Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  gone  through 
the  snows  of  ISIuscovy,  escaped  the  fires  (  f  Wa- 
terloo— the  soldier  of  the  Empire !  Wondrous 
ideal  of  a  wondrous  time !  and  nowhere  win- 
ning more  respect  and  awe  than  in  that  land  of 
the  old  English  foe,  in  which,  with  slight  knowl- 
edge of  the  Beautiful  in  Art,  there  is  so  rever- 
ent a  sympathj-  for  all  that  is  giand  in  ]\Ian ! 
There  sate  the  soldier,  penniless  and  friendless 
— there,  scarcely  seen,  reclined  his  grandchild, 
weak  and  slowly  dying  for  the  want  of  food; 
and  all  that  the  soldier  possesses  wherewith  to 
buy  bread  for  the  day  is  his  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  It  was  given  to  him  by  the  hand  of 
the  Emperor — must  he  pawn  or  sell  it  ?  Out  on 
the  pomp  of  decoration  which  we  have  substi- 
tuted for  the  voice  of  passionate  nature,  on  our 
fallen  stage  1  Scenes  so  faithful  to  the  shaft  of 
a  column  —  dresses  by  which  an  antiquary  can 
define  a  date  to  a  year !  Is  delusion  there  ?  Is 
it  thus  we  are  snatched  from  Thebes  to  Athens? 
No;  place  a  really  fine  actor  on  a  deal-board, 
and  for  Thebes  and  Athens  you  may  hang  up  a 
blanket!  Why,  that  very  cross  which  the  old 
soldier  holds  —  away  from  his  sight — in  that 
tremulous  hand,  is  but  patched  up  from  the  foil 
and  card-board  bought  at  the  stationer's  shop. 
You  might  see  it  was  nothing  more,  if  you  tried 
to  see.  Did  a  soul  present  think  of  such  minute 
investigation  ?  Not  one.  In  the  actor's  hand 
that  trumpery  became  at  once  the  glorious  thing 
by  which  Napoleon  had  planted  the  sentiment 
of  knightly  heroism  in  the  men  whom  Danton 
would  have  launched  upon  earth  ruthless  and 
bestial,  as  galley-slaves  that  had  burst  their 
chain. 

The  badge  wrought  from  foil  and  card-board 
took  life  and  soul ;  it  begot  an  interest,  inspired 
a  pathos,  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  made — oh, 
not  of  gold  and  gems,  but  of  flesh  and  blood. 
And  the  simjile  broken  words  that  the  old  ^lan 
addressed  to  it !  The  scenes,  the  fields,  the 
hopes,  the  glories  it  conjured  up!  And  now  to 
be  WTenched  away — sold  to  supply  Man's  hum- 
blest, meanest  wants — sold — the  last  symbol  of 
such  a  past!  It  was  indeed  ^'propter  vilam  vi- 
vendi  perdere  causas."  He  would  have  star\-ed 
rather — but  the  Child?  And  then  the  child 
rose  up  and  came  into  play.  She  would  not 
suffer  such  a  sacrifice — she  was  not  hungry — 
she  was  not  weak;  and  when  voice  failed  her, 
she  looked  up  into  that  iron  face  and  smiled — 
nothing  but  a  smile.     Out   came  the  pocket- 


72 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


handkerchiefs !  The  soldier  seizes  the  cross 
and  turns  away.  It  shallhe  sold !  As  he  opens 
the  door,  a  dog  enters  gravely — licks  his  hand, 
approaches  the  table,  raises  itself  on  its  hind- 
legs,  surveys  the  table  dolefully,  shakes  its  head, 
whines,  comes  to  its  master,  pulls  him  by  the 
skirt,  looks  into  his  face  inquisitively. 

What  does  all  this  mean  ?  It  soon  comes  out, 
and  very  naturally.  The  dog  belonged  to  an 
old  fellow-soldier,  who  had  gone  to  the  Isle  of 
France  to  claim  his  share  in  the  inheritance  of 
a  brother  who  had  settled  and  died  there,  and 
who,  meanwhile,  had  confided  it  to  the  care  of 
our  veteran,  who  was  then  in  comparatively  easy 
circumstances,  since  ruined  by  the  failure  and 
fraud  of  a  banker  to  whom  he  had  intrusted  his 
all ;  and  his  small  pension,  including  the  yearly 
sum  to  which  his  cross  entitled  him,  had  been 
forestalled  and  mortgaged  to  ])ay  the  petty  debts 
which,  relying  on  his  dividend  from  the  banker, 
he  had  innocently  incurred.  The  dog's  owner 
had  been  gone  for  months  ;  his  return  might  be 
daily  expected.  Meanwhile  the  dog  was  at  the 
hearth,  but  the  wolf  at  the  door.  Now  this  sa- 
gacious animal  had  been  taught  to  perform  the 
duties  of  messenger  and  major-domo.  At  stated 
intervals,  he  a])plied  to  his  master  for  sous,  and 
brought  back  the  supplies  which  the  sous  pur- 
chased. He  now,  as  usual,  came  to  the  table  for 
the  accustomed  coin — the  last  sou  was  gone — 
the  dog's  occupation  was  at  an  end.  But  could 
not  the  dog  be  sold?  Impossible — it  was  the 
property  of  another  —  a  sacred  deposit;  one 
would  be  as  bad  as  the  banker  if  one  could  ap- 
ply to  one's  own  necessities  the  property  one 
held  in  trust.  These  little  l)iograpliical  particu- 
lars came  out  in  that  sort  of  bitter  and  pathetic 
humor  which  a  study  of  Shakspeare,  or  the  ex- 
perience of  actual  life  had  taught  the  Comedian 
to  be  a  natural  relief  to  an  intense  sorrow.  The 
dog  meanwhile  aided  the  narrative  by  his  by- 
play. Still  intent  upon  the  sous,  he  thrust  his 
nose  into  his  master's  pockets  —  he  appealed 
touchingly  to  the  child,  and  finally  put  back  his 
head  and  vented  his  emotion  in  a  lugubrious 
and  elegiacal  howl.  Suddenly  there  is  heard 
without  the  sound  of  a  showman's  tin  trumpet ! 
Whether  the  actor  had  got  some  obliging  per- 
son to  perform  on  that  instrument,  or  whether, 
as  more  likely,  it  was  but  a  trick  of  ventrilo- 
quism, we  leave  to  conjecture.  At  that  note, 
an  idea  seemed  to  seize  the  dog.  He  ran  first 
to  his  master,  who  was  on  the  threshold  about 
to  depart ;  pulled  him  back  into  the  centre  of  the 
room ;  next  he  ran  to  the  child,  dragging  her 
toward  the  same  spot,  though  with  great  tender- 
ness, and  then,  uttering  a  joyous  bark,  he  raised 
himself  on  his  hind-legs,  and,  with  incompara- 
ble solemnity,  performed  a  minuet  step!  The 
child  catches  the  idea  from  the  dog.  "  Was  he 
not  more  worth  seeing  than  the  puppet-show  in 
the  streets  ?  might  not  people  give  money  to  see 
him,  and  the  old  soldier  still  keep  his  cross? 
To-day  there  is  a  public  Jete  in  the  gardens  yon- 
der ;  that  showman  must  be  going  thither ;  why 
not  go  too?"  What!  he,  the  old  soldier — he 
stoop  to  show  off  a  dog !  he !  he !  The-  dog  look- 
ed at  him  deprecatingly,  and  stretched  himself 
on  the  floor — lifeless ! 

Yes,  that  is  the  alternative — shall  his  child 
die  too,  and  he  be  too  proud  to  save  her?  Ah ! 
and  if  the  cross  can  be  saved  also !    But  pshaw ! 


what  did  the  dog  know  that  people  would  care 
to  see?  Oh,  much,  much.  When  the  child 
was  alone  and  sad,  it  would  come  and  play  with 
her.  See  these  old  dominos !  She  ranged  them 
on  the  floor,  and  the  dog  leaped  up  and  came 
to  prove  his  skill.  Artfully,  then,  the  Comedian 
had  planned  that  the  dog  should  make  some  sad 
mistakes,  attended  by  some  marvelous  surprises. 
No,  he  would  not  do;  yes,  he  would  do.  The 
audience  took  it  seriously,  and  became  intense- 
ly interested  in  the  dog's  success  ;  so  sorry  for 
his  blunders,  so  triumphant  in  his  lucky  hits. 
And  then  the  child  calmed  the  hasty,  irritable 
old  man  so  sweetly,  and  corrected  the  dog  so 
gently,  and  talked  to  the  animal ;  told  it  how 
much  they  relied  on  it,  and  produced  an  infant 
alphabet,  and  spelled  out  "  Save  us."  The  dog 
looked  at  the  letters  meditatively,  and  hence- 
forth it  was  evident  that  he  took  more  pains. 
Better  and  better;  he  will  do,  he  will  do!  The 
child  shall  not  starve,  the  cross  shall  not  be  sold ! 
Down  dro]is  the  curtain. — End  of  Act  I. 

Act  II.  opens  with  a  dialogue  spoken  off  the 
stage.  Invisible  dramatis  persona,  tliat  subsist, 
with  airy  tongues,  upon  the  mimetic  art  of  the 
Comedian.  You  understand  that  there  is  a  ve- 
hement dispute  going  on.  The  dog  must  not  be 
admitted  into  a  part  of  the  gardens  where  a 
more  refined  and  exclusive  section  of  the  com- 
pany have  hired  seats,  in  order  to  contemplate, 
without  sharing,  the  rude  dances  or  jostling 
promenade  of  the  promiscuous  meny-makers. 
Much  hubbub,  much  humor;  some  persons  for 
the  dog,  some  against  him ;  privilege  and  deco- 
rum here,  equality  and  fraternity  there.  A  Bo- 
napartist  colonel  sees  the  cross  on  the  soldier's 
breast,  and,  yni/le  tonnerres,  he  settles  the  point. 
He  pays  for  three  reserved  seats — one  for  the 
soldier,  one  for  the  child,  and  a  third  for  the 
dog.  The  veteran  enters ;  the  child,  not  strong 
enough  to  have  pushed  through  the  crowd,  raised 
on  his  shoulder,  Eolla-like  ;  the  dog  led  by  a 
string.  He  enters  erect  and  warrior-like ;  his 
spirit  has  been  roused  by  contest ;  his  struggles 
have  been  crowned  by  victory.  I3ut  (and  here 
the  art  of  the  drama  and  the  actor  culminated 
toward  the  highest  point) — but  he  now  at  once 
includes  in  the  list  of  his  dramatis 'persona  the 
whole  of  his  Gatesboro'  audience.  They  are  that 
select  company  into  which  he  has  thus  forced 
his  way.  As  he  sees  them  seated  before  him, 
so  calm,  orderly,  and  dignified,  inauvaise  lionte 
steals  over  the  breast  more  accustomed  to  front 
the  cannon  than  the  battery  of  ladies'  eves.  He 
places  the  child  in  a  chair,  abashed  and  hum- 
bled ;  he  drops  into  a  seat  beside  her  shrinking- 
]y ;  and  the  dog,  with  more  self-possession  and 
sense  of  his  own  consequence,  brushes  with  his 
paw  some  imaginary  dust  from  a  third  chair,  as 
in  the  superciliousness  of  the  well-dressed,  and 
then  seats  himself,  and  looks  round  Mith  serene 
audacity. 

The  chairs  were  skillfully  placed  on  one  side 
of  the  stage,  as  close  as  possible  to  the  front  row 
of  the  audience.  The  soldier  ventures  a  furtive 
glance  along  the  lines,  and  then  speaks  to  his 
grandchild  in  whispered,  bated  breath:  "Now 
they  are  there,  what  are  they  come  for?  To 
beg  ?  He  can  never  have  the  boldness  to  ex- 
hibit an  animal  for  sous — impossible ;  no,  no, 
let  them  slink  back  again  and  sell  the  cross." 
And  the  child  whispers  courage ;  bids  him  look 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


73 


again  along  the  rows ;  those  faces  seem  very  | 
knid.  He  again  lifts  his  eyes,  glances  round, 
and  with  an  extemporaneous  tact  that  completed 
the  illusion  to  which  the  audience  were  already 
wentlv  lending  themselves,  made  sundry  com- 
plimentary comments  on  the  different  faces 
actualiv  before  him,  selected  most  felicitously. 
The  audience,  taken  by  surprise,  as  some  fair 
female,  or  kindly  burgess,  familiar  to  their 
associations,  was  thus  pointed  out  to  their  ap- 
plause, became  heartily  genial  in  their  cheers 
and  laugliter.  And  the  Comedian's  face,  un- 
moved by  such  demonstrations — so  shy  and  sad 
— insinuated  its  pathos  underneath  cheer  and 
laugh.  You  now  learned  through  the  child  that 
a  dance,  on  which  the  company  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  gazing,  was  concluded,  and  that 
they  would  not  be  displeased  by  an  interval  of 
some  other  diversion.  Now  was  the  time !  The 
dog,  as  if  to  convey  a  sense  of  the  prevalent 
ennui,  yawned  audibly,  patted  the  child  on  the 
shoulder,  and  looked  up  in  her  face.  "  A  game 
of  dominos,"  whispered  the  little  girl.  The  dog 
gleefully  grinned  assent.  Timidly  she  stole  forth 
the  old'  dominos,  and  ranged  them  on  the 
ground;  on  which  she  slipped  from  her  chair; 
the  dog  slipped  from  his;  they  began  to  play. 
The  experiment  was  launched ;  the  soldier  saw 
that  the  curiosity  of  the  company  was  excited — 
that  the  show  would  commence — the  sous  fol- 
low ;  and  as  if  he  at  least  would  not  openly 
shame  his  service  and  his  Emperor,  he  turned 
aside,  slid  his  hand  to  his  breast,  tore  away  his 
cross,  and  hid  it.  Scarce  a  murmured  word 
accompanied  the  action — the  acting  said  all; 
and  a  noble  thrill  ran  through  the  audience. 
Oh,  sublime  art  of  the  mime  ! 

The  JIayor  sat  very  near  where  the  child 
and  dog  were  at  play.  The  Comedian  had  (as 
he  before  implied  he  would  do)  discreetly  pre- 
pared that  gentleman  for  direct  and  personal 
appeal.  The  little  girl  turned  her  blue  eyes  in- 
nocently toward  Mr.  Hartopp,  and  said,  "The 
dog  beats  me,  Sir ;  will  you  try  what  you  can 
do?" 

A  roar,  and  universal  clapping  of  hands, 
amidst  which  the  worthy  magistrate  stepped  on 
the  stage.  At  the  command  of  its  young  mis- 
tress, the  dog  made  the  magistrate  a  polite  bow, 
and  straiglit  to  the  game  went  magistrate  and 
dog.  From  that  time  the  interest  became,  as 
it  were,  personal  to  all  present.  "Will  you 
come,  Sir  ?"  said  the  child  to  a  young  gentleman, 
who  was  straining  his  neck  to  see  how  the 
dominos  were  played ;  "  and  observe  that  it  is 
all  fair.  You  too,  Sir?"  to  Mr.  Williams.  The 
Comedian  stood  beside  the  dog,  whose  move- 
ments he  directed  with  undetected  skill,  while 
appearing  only  to  fix  his  eyes  on  the  ground  in 
conscious  abasement.  Those  on  the  rows  fronr 
behind  now  pressed  forward  ;  those  in  advance 
either  came  on  the  stage,  or  stood  up  intently 
contemplating.  The  Mayor  was  defeated,  the 
crowd  became  too  thick,  and  the  caresses  be- 
stowed on  the  dog  seemed  to  fatigue  him.  He 
rose  and  retreated  to  a  corner  haughtily.  "  Man- 
ners, .Sir,"  said  the  soldier ;  "  it  is  not  for  the  like 
of  us  to  be  proud  ;  excuse  him,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen."— "  He  only  wishes  to  please  all,"  said 
the  child,  deprecatingly.  "  Say  how  many  would 
you  have  round  us  at  a  time,  so  that  the  rest 
may  not  be  prevented  seeing  you  ?"     She  spread 


the  multiplication  figures  before  the  dog ;  the 
dog  put  his  paw  on  10.  "Astonishing I"  said 
the  Mayor;  "Will  you  choose  them  yourself, 
Sir?"  The  dog  nodded,  walked  leisurely  round, 
keeping  one  eye  toward  the  one  eye  of  his  mas- 
ter, and  selected  ten  pcrsous,  among  whom 
were  the  Mayor,  Mr.  Williams,  and  three  jiretty 
young  ladies,  who  had  been  induced  to  ascend 
the  stage.  The  others  were  chosen  no  less  judi- 
ciously. 

The  dog  was  then  led  artfully  on  from  one 
accomplishment  to  another,  much  within  the 
ordinary  range  which  bounds  the  instruction  of 
learned  animals.  He  was  asked  to  say  how 
many  ladies  were  on  the  stage  ;  he  sjiclt  three. 
What  were  their  names?  "The  Graces."  Then 
he  was  asked  who  was  the  first  magistrate  in 
the  town.  The  dog  made  a  bow  to  the  Mayor. 
"Wliat  had  made  that  gentleman  first  magis- 
trate?" The  dog  looked  to  the  alphabet  and 
spelt  "  Worth."  "  Were  there  any  jjcrsons  pres- 
ent more  powerful  than  the  Mayor?"  The  dog 
bowed  to  the  three  young  ladies.  "  What  made 
them  more  powerful  ?"  The  dog  spelt  "  Beau- 
ty." When  ended  the  applause  these  answers 
received,  the  dog  went  through  the  musket  ex- 
ercise with  the  soldier's  staff";  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  j)erformed  that,  lie  came  to  the  business  part 
of  the  exhibition,  seized  the  hat  which  his  mas- 
ter had  dropped  on  the  ground,  and  carried  it 
round  to  each  person  on  the  stage.  They  looked 
at  one  another.  "  He  is  a  poor  soldier's  dog," 
said  the  child,  hiding  her  face.  "No,  no;  a 
soldier  can  not  beg,"  cried  the  Comedian.  The 
Mayor  dropped  a  coin  in  the  hat ;  others  did 
the  same,  or  aflfected  to  do  it.  The  dog  took 
the  hat  to  his  master,  who  waved  him  aside. 
There  was  a  pause.  The  dog  laid  the  hat  soft- 
ly at  the  soldier's  feet,  and  looked  up  to  the 
child  beseechingly. 

"_What,"  asked  she,  raising  her  head  proud- 
ly— "  what  secures  Worth  and  defends  Beau- 
ty ?"  The  dog  took  up  the  staff'  and  slioulder- 
ed  it.  And  to  what  can  the  soldier  look  for 
aid  when  he  starves,  and  will  not  beg  ?  The 
dog  seemed  puzzled — tlie  suspense  was  awful. 
"  Good  Heavens,"  thought  the  Comedian,  "  if 
the  brute  should  break  down  after  all ! — and 
when  I  took  such  care  that  the  words  should  lie 
undisturbed — right  before  his  nose !"  With  a 
deep  sigh  the  veteran  started  from  his  despond- 
ent attitude,  and  crept  along  the  floor  as  if  for 
escape — so  broken  down,  so  crest-fallen.  Ev- 
ery eye  was  on  that  heart-broken  face  and  re- 
ceding figure  ;  and  the  eye  of  that  heart-broken 
face  was  on  the  dog,  and  the  foot  of  that  reced- 
ing figure  seemed  to  tremble,  recoil,  start,  as  it 
passed  by  the  alphabetical  letters  which  still  lay 
on  the  ground  as  last  arranged.  "  Ah  !  to  what 
should  he  look  for  aid?"  repeated  the  grand- 
child, clasping  her  little  hands.  The  dog  had 
now  caught  the  cue,  and  put  his  paw  first  upon 
"  Worth,"  and  then  upon  Beatty.  "  Worth  !" 
cried  the  ladies — "Beauty!"  exclaimed  the 
INIayor.  "  Wonderful,  wonderful !"  "  Take  up 
the"  hat,"  said  the  child,  and  turning  to  the 
Mayor— "Ah!  tell  him,  Sir,  that  what  Worth 
and  Beauty  give  to  Valor  in  distress  is  not  alms, 
but  tribute." 

The  words  were  little  better  than  a  hack  clap- 
trap ;  but  the  sweet  voice  glided  through  the 
assembly,  and  found  its  way  into  every  heart. 


74 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


"Is  it  so  ?"  asked  the  old  soldier,  as  his  hand 
hoveringly  paused  above  the  coins.  "  Upon  my 
honor,  it  is.  Sir,"  said  the  Mayor,  with  serious 
emphasis.  The  audience  thought  it  the  best 
speech  he  had  ever  made  in  his  life,  and  cheered 
him  till  the  roof  runs;  again.  "Oh!  bread, 
bread,  for  you,  Darling !"  cried  the  veteran,  bow- 
ing his  head  over  the  child,  and  taking  out  his 
cross  and  kissing  it  with  passion;  "and  the 
badge  of  honor  still  for  me!" 

While  the  audience  was  in  the  full  depth  of 
its  emotion,  and  generous  tears  in  i^any  an  eye, 
Waife  seized  his  moment,  dropped  the  actor,  and 
stc]iped  forth  to  the  front  as  the  man — simple, 
quiet,  earnest  man — artless  man ! 

"  This  is  no  mimic  scene,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. It  is  a  tale  in  real  life  that  stands  out  be- 
fore you.  I  am  here  to  appeal  to  those  hearts 
that  are  not  vainly  open  to  human  sorrows.  I 
plead  for  what  I  have  represented.  True,  that 
the  man  wlio  needs  your  aid  is  not  of  that  sol- 
diery which  devastated  Europe.  But  he  has 
fought  in  battles  as  severe,  and  been  left  by  foi-- 
tune  to  as  stern  a  desolation,  True,  he  is  not  a 
Trenchman :  he  is  one  of  a  land  you  will  not 
love  less  than  France, — it  is  your  own.  He,  too, 
has  a  child  whom  he  would  save  from  famine. 
He,  too,  has  nothing  left  to  sell  or  to  pawn  for 
bread — except — oh,  not  this  gilded  badge,  see, 
this  is  only  foil  ami  card-board — except,  I  say, 
the  thing  itself,  of  which  you  respect  even  so 
poor  a  symbol — nothing  left  to  sell  or  to  ])awn 
but  Honor  !  For  these  I  have  pleaded  this  night 
as  a  showman  ;  for  these,  less  haughty  than  the 
^Frenchman,  I  stretch  my  hands  toward  you 
without  shame;  for  these  I  am  a  beggar." 

He  was  silent.  The  dog  quietly  took  up  the 
hat  and  approached  the  Mayor  again.  The 
Mayor  extracted  the  half-crown  he  had  pre- 
viously deposited,  and  dropped  into  the  hat  two 
golden  sovereigns.  Who  does  not  guess  ^the 
rest  ?  All  crowded  forward — youth  and  age, 
man  and  woman.  And  most  ardent  of  all  were 
those  whose  life  stands  most  close  to  vicissitude 
— most  exposed  to  beggary — most  sorely  tried 
in  tlie  alternative  between  bread  and  honor. 
Not  an  operative  there  but  spared  his  mite. 


CHAPTER  XHL 

Omne  ignotnm  pro  Magnifico — Rumor,  knowing  nothing 
of  his  antecedents,  exalts  Gentleman  Waife  into  Don 
Magnifico. 

The  Comedian  and  his  two  coadjutors  were 
followed  to  the  Saracen's  Head  Inn  by  a  large 
crowd,  but  at  a  respectful  distance.  Though  I 
know  few  things  less  pleasing  than  to  have  been 
decoyed  and  entrapped  into  an  unexpected  de- 
mand upon  one's  purse — when  one  only  count- 
ed, too,  upon  an  agreeable  evening  —  and  hold, 
therefore,  in  just  abhorrence  the  circulating 
plate  which  sometimes  follows  a  popular  ora- 
tion, homily,  or  other  eloquent  appeal  to  British 
liberality ;  yet  I  will  venture  to  say  there  was 
not  a  creature  whom  the  Comedian  had  sur- 
prised into  impulsive  beneficence  who  regretted 
his  action,  grudged  its  cost,  or  thought  he  had 
paid  too  dear  for  his  entertainment.  All  had 
gone  through  a  series  of  such  pleasurable  emo-  i 
tions,  that  all  had,  as  it  were,  wished  a  vent  for  i 


their  gratitude  —  and  when  the  vent  was  found 
it  became  an  additional  pleasure.  But,  strange 
to  say,  no  one  could  satisfactorily  explain  to 
himself  these  two  questions  —  for  what,  and  to 
whom,  had  he  given  his  money?  It  was  not  a 
general  conjecture  that  the  exhibitor  wanted 
the  money  for  his  own  uses.  No,  des])ite  the 
evidence  in  favor  of  that  idea,  a  person  so  re- 
sj)ectable,  so  dignified  —  addressing  them,  too, 
with  that  noble  assurance  to  which  a  man  who 
begs  for  himself  is  not  morally  entitled — a  per- 
son thus  cliaracterized  must  be  some  high-heart- 
ed philanthropist  who  condescended  to  display 
his  powers  at  an  institute  purely  intellectual, 
perhaps  on  behalf  of  an  eminent  but  decayed 
author,  whose  name,  from  the  respect  due  to 
letters,  was  delicately  concealed.  Mr.  Williams 
— considered  the  hardest  head  and  most  practi- 
cal man  in  the  town — originated  and  maintained 
that  hypothesis.  Probably  the  stranger  was  an 
author  himself — a  great  and  atliucnt  author. 
Had  not  great  and  atHuent  authors  —  men  who 
are  the  boast  of  our  time  and  land — acted,  yea, 
on  a  common  stage,  and  acted  inimitably,  too, 
on  behalf  of  some  lettei-ed  brother  or"  literary 
object?  Therefore  in  these  guileless  minds, 
with  all  the  pecuniary  advantages  of  extreme 
penury  and  forlorn  position,  the  Comedian  ob- 
tained the  resjiect  due  to  prosperous  circum- 
stances and  high  renown.  But  there  was  one 
universal  wish  expressed  by  all  who  had  been 
present,  as  they  took  their  way  homeward — and 
that  wish  was  to  renew  llie  pleasure  they  had 
experienced,  even  if  they  paid  the  same  price 
for  it.  Could  not  the  long-closed  theatre  be  re- 
ojjened,  and  the  great  man  be  induced  by  phil- 
anthropic motives,  and  an  assured  sum,  raised 
by  voluntary  subscriptions,  to  gratify  the  wliole 
town,  as  he  had  gratified  its  selected  intellect? 
Mr.  Williams,  in  a  state  of  charitable  thaw,  now 
softest  of  the  soft,  like  most  hard  men  when  once 
softened,  suggested  this  idea  to  the  Mayor.  The 
Mayor  said,  evasively,  that  he  would  tliink  of  it, 
and  that  he  intended  to  pay  his  respects  to  Mr. 
Chapman  before  he  returned  home  — that  very 
night — it  was  proper.  Mr.  Williams  and  many 
others  wished  to  accompany  his  worship.  But 
the  kind  magistrate  suggested  that  Mr.  Chapman 
would  be  greatly  fatigued  ;  that  the  presence  of 
many  might  seem  more  an  intrusion  than  a  com- 
pliment ;  that  he,  the  Mayor,  had  better  go  alone, 
and  at  a  somewhat  later  hour,  when  Mr.  Chap- 
man, though  not  retired  to  bed,  might  have  had 
time  for  rest  and  refreshment.  This  delicate 
consideration  had  its  weight ;  and  the  streets 
were  thin  when  the  Mayor's  gig  stopped,  in  its 
way  villa-ward,  at  the  Saracen's  Head. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

It  is  the  intei-val  between  our  first  repinings  and  our  final 
resignation,  in  which,  both  with  individuals  and  com- 
munities, is  to  be  found  all  that  makes  a  History  worth 
telling.  Ere  yet  we  yearn  for  what  is  out  of  our  reach, 
we  are  still  in  the  cradle.  When  wearied  out  with  our 
yearnings,  Desire  again  falls  asleep  —  we  are  on  the 
death-bed. 

Sophy  (leaning  on  her  grandfather's  arm,  as 
they  ascend  the  stair  of  the  Saracen's  Head). 
"But  I  am  so  tired,  grandy — I'd  rather  go  to 
bed  at  once,  please." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


75 


Gentleman  Waife.  "  Surely  you  could  take 
something  to  eat  first  —  something  nice,  Miss 
Chapman?  (whispering  close)  We  can  live  in 
clover  now"  —  a  phrase  which  means  (aloud  to 
the  landlady,  who  crossed  tlie  landing-place 
above)  '•  grilled  chicken  and  mushrooms  for 
supper,  ma'am  !  Why  don't  you  smile,  Sophy  ? 
Oh,  darling,  you  are  ill  I" 

'■  No,  no,  grandy  dear — only  tired — let  me  go 
to  bed.  I  shall  be  better  to-moiTow  —  I  shall 
indeed  I"' 

Waife  looked  fondly  into  her  face,  but  his 
spirits  were  too  much  exhilarated  to  allow  him 
to  notice  the  unusual  flush  upon  her  cheek,  ex- 
cept with  admiration  of  the  increased  beauty 
which  the  heightened  color  gave  to  her  soft 
features. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  pretty  child  ! — 

a  very  pretty  child — and  you  act  wonderfully. 

You  would  make  a  fortune  on  the  stage,  but — " 

Sophy  (eagerly).  "  But  no,  no,  never !  —  not 

the  stage !" 

Waife.  "  I  don't  wish  you  to  go  on  the  stage, 
as  you  know.  A  private  exhibition  —  like  the 
one  to-night,  for  instance  —  has  (thrusting  his 
hand  into  his  pocket)  much  to  recommend  it." 

Sophy  (with  a  sigh).  •'  Thank  Heaven,  that 
is  over  now,  and  you'll  not  be  in  want  of  money 
for  a  long,  long  time  !     Dear  Sir  Isaac  !" 

She  began  caressing  Sir  Isaac,  who  received 
her  attentions  with  solemn  pleasure.  They  were 
now  in  Sophy's  room;  and  Waife,  after  again 
pressing  the  child  in  vain  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment, bestowed  on  her  his  kiss  and  blessing, 
and  whistled  Malbrook  s'en  va-t-cn  guerre  to  Sir 
Isaac,  who,  considering  that  melody  an  invita- 
tion to  supper,  licked  his  lips,  and  stalked  forth, 
rejoicing,  but  decorous. 

Left  alone,  the  child  breathed  long  and  hard, 
pressing  her  hands  to  her  bosom,  and  sunk 
wearily  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  There  were  no 
shutters  to  the  window,  and  the  moonlight  came 
in  gently,  stealing  across  that  part  of  the  wall 
and  floor  which  the  ray  of  the  candle  left  in 
shade.  The  girl  raised  her  eyes  slowly  toward 
the  window — toward  the  glimpse  of  the  blue 
sky,  and  the  slanting  lustre  of  the  moon.  There 
is  a  certain  epoch  in  our  childhood  when  what  is 
called  the  romance  of  sentiment  first  makes  itself 
vaguely  felt.  And  ever  with  the  dawn  of  that 
sentiment  the  moon  and  the  stars  take  a  strange 
and  haunting  fascination.  Few  persons  in  middle 
life  —  even  though  they  be  genuine  poets  —  feel 
the  peculiar  spell  in  the  severe  stillness  and 
mournful  splendor  of  starry  skies  which  im- 
presses most  of  us,  even  though  no  poets  at  all, 
in  that  mystic  age  when  childhood  nearly  touch- 
es upon  youth,  and  turns  an  unquiet  heart  to 
those  marvelous  riddles  within  us  and  without, 
which  we  cease  to  conjecture  when  experience 
has  taught  us  that  they  have  no  solution  upon 
this  side  the  grave.  Lured  by  the  light,  the 
child  rose  softly,  approached  the  window,  and 
resting  her  upturned  face  upon  both  hands, 
gazed  long  in  the  heavens,  communing  evident- 
ly with  herself,  for  her  lips  moved  and  murmur- 
ed indistinctly.  Slowly  she  retired  from  the 
casement,  and  again  seated  herself  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  disconsolate.  And  then  her  thoughts 
ran  somewhat  thus,  though  she  might  not  have 
shaped  them  exactly  in  the  same  words  :  "  Xo ! 
I  can  not  understand  it.     Whv  was  I  contented 


and  happy  before  I  knew  him  f  Why  did  I  see 
no  harm,  no  shame  in  this  way  of  life — not  even 
on  that  stage  with  those  people — until  he  said, 
'  It  was  what  he  wished  I  had  never  stoojied  to.' 
And  grandfather  says  our  paths  are  so  difl'crent, 
they  can  not  cross  each  other  again.  Tiiere  is 
a  path  of  life,  then,  whidi  I  can  never  enter; 
there  is  a  path  on  which  I  must  always,  always 
walk — always,  always,  always  that  path — no  es- 
cape !  Never  to  come  into  that  other  one  where 
there  is  no  disguise,  no  hiding,  no  false  names 
— never,  never  I"  She  started  impatiently,  and 
with  a  wild  look,  '"It  is  killing  me!" 

Then,  terrified  by  her  own  impetuosity,  she 
threw  herself  on  the  bed,  weeping  low.  Her 
heart  had  now  gone  back  to  her  grandfather ; 
it  was  smiting  her  for  ingratitude  to  him.  Could 
there  be  shame  or  wrong  in  what  he  asked — in 
what  he  did  ?  And  was  she  to  murmur  if  she 
aided  him  to  exist  ?  AVhat  was  the  ojjinion  of 
a  stranger  boy,  compared  to  the  approving,  shel- 
tering love  of  her  sole  guardian  and  tried,  fos- 
tering friend?  And  could  people  choose  their 
own  callings  and  modes  of  life  ?  If  one  road 
went  this  way,  another  that ;  and  they  on  the 
one  road  were  borne  farther  and  farther  away 
from  those  on  the  other — as  that  idea  came, 
consolation  stopped,  and  in  her  noiseless  v.eep- 
ing  there  was  a  bitterness  as  of  despair.  Bat 
the  tears  ended  by  relieving  the  grief  that  caused 
them.  Wearied  out  of  conjecture  and  complaint, 
her  mind  relapsed  into  the  old  native,  childish 
submission.  With  a  fervor  in  which  there  was 
self-reproach,  she  repeated  her  meek,  nightly 
prayer,  that  God  would  bless  her  dear  grandfa- 
ther, and  suffer  her  to  be  his  comfort  and  sup- 
port. Then  mechanically  she  undressed,  extin- 
guished the  candle,  and  crept  into  bed.  The 
moonlight  became  bolder  and  bolder;  it  ad- 
vanced up  the  floors,  along  the  walls;  now  it 
floods  her  very  pillow,  and  seems  to  her  eyes  to 
take  a  holy,  loving  kindness,  holier  and  more 
loving  as  the  lids  droop  beneath  it.  A  vague 
remembrance  of  some  tale  of  "  Guardian  spir- 
its," with  which  Waife  had  once  charmed  her 
wonder,  stirred  through  her.  lulling  thoughts, 
linking  itself  with  the  presence  of  that  encirchng 
moonlight.  There !  see,  the  eyelids  are  closed 
— no  tear  upon  their  fringe.  See  the  dimples 
steal  out  as  the  sweet  lips  are  parted.  She 
sleeps,  she  dreams  already !  Where  and  what 
is  the  rude  world  of  waking  now?  Are  there 
not  guardian  spirits?  Deride  the  question  if 
thou  wilt,  stern  man,  the  reasoning  and  self- 
reliant  ;  but  th(^,  0  fair  mother,  who  hast  mark- 
ed the  strange  happiness  on  the  face  of  a  child 
that  has  wept  itself  to  sleep — what  sayest  thou 
to  the  soft  tradition,  which  surely  had  its  origin 
in  the  heart  of  the  earliest  mother? 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  is  no  man  eo  friendless  but  what  he  can  find  a 
friend  sincere  enough  to  tell  hira  disagreeable  truths. 

Mean-while  the  Comedian  had  made  him- 
self and  Sir  Isaac  extremely  comfortable.  No 
unabstemious  man  by  habit  was  Gentleman 
Waife.  He  could  dine  on  a  crust,  and  season 
it  with  mirth  ;  and  as  for  exciting  drinks,  there 
was  a  childlike  innocence  in  his  humor  never 


76 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


known  to  a  brain  that  has  been  washed  in  alco- 
hol. But  on  this  special  occasion,  "VVaife's  heart 
was  made  so  bounteous  by  the  novel  sense  of 
prosperity  that  it  compelled  him  to  treat  him- 
self. He  did  honor  to  the  grilled  chicken,  to 
which  he  had  vainly  tempted  Sophy.  He  or- 
dered half  a  pint  of  port  to  be  mulled  into  negus. 
He  helped  himself  with  a  bow,  as  if  himself  were 
a  guest,  and  nodded  each  time  he  took  off  his 
glass,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Your  health,  I\Ir. 
Waife  I"  He  even  offered  a  glass  of  the  exhil- 
arating draught  to  Sir  Isaac,  who,  exceedingly 
offended,  retreated  under  the  sofa,  whence  he 
peered  forth  through  his  deciduous  ringlets,  with 
brows  knit  in  grave  rebuke.  Nor  was  it  with- 
out deliberate  caution — a  whisker  first,  and  then 
a  paw — that  he  emerged  from  his  retreat,  when 
a  plate,  heaped  with  the  remains  of  the  feast, 
was  placed  upon  the  hearth-rug. 

The  supper  over  and  the  attendant  gone,  the 
negus  still  left,  Waife  lighted  his  pipe,  and 
gazing  on  Sir  Isaac,  thus  addressed  that  canine 
philosopher:  "Illustrious  member  of  the  Quad- 
rupedal Society  of  Friends  to  Man,  and  as  pos- 
sessing those  abilities  for  practical  life  which  but 
few  friends  to  man  ever  display  in  his  service, 
promoted  to  high  rank — Commissary  General  of 
the  Victualing  Department,  and  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer — I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you 
that  a  vote  of  thanks  in  your  favor  has  been  pro- 
posed in  this  House,  and  carried  unanimously." 
Sir  Isaac,  looking  shy,  gave  another  lick  to  the 
plate,  and  wagged  his  tail.  "It  is  true  that 
thou  wert  once  (shall  I  say  it?)  in  fault  at 
*  Beauty  and  Worth  ;'  thy  memory  deserted 
thee ;  thy  peroration  was  on  the  verge  of  a 
break-down ;  but  '  Nemo  mortalium  omnibus 
horis  sajjit,'  as  the  Latin  gi-ammar  philosophic- 
ally expresseth  it.  Mortals  the  wisest,  not  only 
on  two  legs,  but  even  upon  four,  occasionally 
stumble.  The  greatest  general,  statesman,  sage, 
is  not  he  who  commits  no  blunder,  but  he  who 
best  rejjairs  a  blunder,  and  converts  it  to  success. 
This  was  thy  merit  and  distinction  1  It  hath 
never  been  mine  I  I  recognize  thy  superior 
genius.  I  place  in  thee  unqualified  confidence  ; 
and  consigning  thee  to  the  arms  of  Morpheus, 
since  I  see  that  panegyric  acts  on  thy  nervous 
system  as  a  salubrious  soporific,  I  now  move  that 
this  House  do  resolve  itself  into  a  Committee  of 
Ways  and  Means  for  the  Consideration  of  the 
Budget  1" 

Therewith,  while  Sir  Isaac  fell  into  a  profound 
sleep,  the  Comedian  deliberately  emptied  his 
pockets  on  the  table ;  and  arrajiging  gold  and 
silver  before  him,  thrice  carefully  counted  the 
total,  and  then  divided  it  into  sundry  small 
heaps. 

"  That's  for  the  bill,"  quoth  he—"  Civil  List ! 
— a  large  item.  That's  for  Sophy,  the  darling  I 
She  shall  have  a  teacher,  and  learn  French — 
Education  Grant.  Current  Expenses  for  the 
next  fortnight;  Miscellaneous  Estimates  —  to- 
bacco— we'll  call  that  Secret  Service  Money. 
Ah,  scamp,  vagrant  1  is  not  Heaven  kind  to  thee 
at  last  ?  A  few  more  such  nights,  and  who 
knows  but  thine  old  age  may  have  other  roof 
than  the  work-house ?  And  Sophy?  Ah,  what 
of  her?  Merciful  Providence,  spare  my  life  till 
she  has  outgrown  its  uses !"  A  tear  came  to  his 
eye ;  he  brushed  it  away  quickly,  and  re-count- 
ing his  money,  hummed  a  joyous  tune. 


The  door  opened ;  Waife  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise, sweeping  his  hand  over  the  coins,  and  re- 
storing them  to  his  pocket. 
The  ilayor  entered. 

As  Mr.  Hartopp  walked  slowly  up  the  room, 
his  eye  fixed  Waife's;  and  that  eye  was  so  search- 
ing, though  so  mild,  that  the  Comedian  felt  him- 
self change  color.  His  gay  spirits  fell — falling 
lower  and  lower,  the  nearer  the  Mayor's  step 
came  to  him  ;  and  when  Hartopp,  without  speak- 
ing, took  his  hand — not  in  compliment — not  in 
congratulation,  but  pressed  it  as  if  in  deep  com- 
passion, still  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  with 
those  pitying,  penetrating  eyes,  the  Actor  ex- 
perienced a  sort  of  shock,  as  if  he  were  read 
through,  despite  all  his  histrionic  disguises — 
read  through  to  his  heart's  core ;  and,  as  silent 
as  his  visitor,  sunk  back  on  his  chair  abashed — 
disconcerted. 

Me.  Hartopp.  "  Poor  man !" 
The  Comedian  (rousing  himself  with  an  ef- 
fort, but  still  confused).  "Down,  Sir  Isaac, 
down !  This  visit,  Mr.  Mayor,  is  an  honor 
which  may  well  take  a  dog  by  surprise !  For- 
give him !" 

Mr.  Hartopp  (patting  Sir  Isaac,  who  was  in- 
quisitively sniffing  his  garments,  and  drawing  a 
chair  close  to  the  Actor,  who  thereon  edged  his 
own  chair  a  little  away — in  vain ;  for,  on  that 
movement,  Mr.  Hartopp  advanced   in   propor- 
tion). "Your  dog  is  a  very  admirable  and  clever 
animal ;  but  in  the  exhibition  of  a  learned  dog, 
there  is  something  which  tends  to  sadden  one. 
By  what  privations  has  he  been  forced  out  of 
his  natural  ways "/     By  what  fastings  and  severe 
usage  have   his    instincts   been   distorted  into 
tricks  ?     Hunger  is  a  stern  teacher,  Sir.  Chap- 
man ;  and  to  those  whom  it  teaches,  we  can  not 
always  give  praise  unmixed  with  pity." 
I      The  Comedian  (ill  at  ease  under  this  alle- 
I  gorical  tone,  and  surprised  at  quicker  intelli- 
gence in  Mr.  Hart0]>p  than  he  had  given  that 
person  credit  for) — "  You  speak  like  an  oracle, 
Mr.  Mayor ;    but  that  dog,  at  least,  has  been 
j  mildly  educated,  and  kindly  used.    Inborn  gen- 
ius. Sir,  will  have  its  vent.     Hum !  a  most  in- 
'  telligent  audience  honored  us  to-night ;  and  our 
I  best  thanks  are  due  to  you." 

Mk.  Hartopp.    "Mr.  Chapman,   let   us   be 
'  frank  with  each  other.     I  am  not  a  clever  man 
j  — perhaps  a  dull  one.     If  I  had  set  up  for  a 
clever  man  I  should  not  be  where  I  am  now, 
I  Hush  I  no  compliments.    But  my  life  has  brought 
I  me  into  frequent  contact  with  those  v.-ho  suffer; 
I  and  the  dullest  of  us  gain  a  certain  sharpness  in 
'  the  matters  to  which  our  obsen-ation  is  habitu- 
:  ally  drawn.     You  took  me  in  at  first,  it  is  true. 
I  I  thought  you  were  a  philanthropical  humorist, 
'  who  might  have  crotchets,  as  many  benevolent 
men,  with  time  on  their  hands  and  money  in 
I  their  pockets,  are  apt  to  form.    But  when  it  came 
to  the  begging  hat  (I  ask  your  pardon — don't  let 
j  me  offend  you) — when  it  came  to  the  begging 
'  hat,  I  recognized  the  man  who  wants  philan- 
thropy from  others,  and  whose  crotchets  are  to 
be  regarded  in  a  professional  point  of  view.    Sir, 
I  have  come  here  alone,  because  I  alone  per- 
haps  see  the  case  as  it  really  is.    Will  you  con- 
;  fide  in  me  ?  you  may  do  it  safely.    To  be  plain, 
who  and  what  are  you  ?" 

The  Comedian  "(evasively).    "What  do  you 
.  take  me  for,  Mr.  Mavor?    What  can  I  be  other 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


77 


tlian  an  itinerent  showman,  who  has  had  resort 
to  a  harmless  stratagem  in  order  to  obtain  an 
audience,  and  create  a  surprise  that  might  cov- 
er the  naked  audacity  of  the  '  begging  hat?'  " 

Mk.  Hartopp  (gravely).  "When  a  man  of 
your  ability  and  education  is  reduced  to  such 
stratagems,  he  must  have  committed  some  great 
faults.    Pray  Heaven  it  be  no  worse  than  faults  I" 

The  Comedian  (bitterly).  ''That  is  always 
the  way  with  the  prosperous.  Is  a  man  unfor- 
tunate— they  say,  '  Why  don't  he  help  himself?' 
Does  he  try  to  help  himself — they  say,  '  With 
so  much  ability,  why  does  not  he  help  himself 
better?'  Ability  and  education!  Snares  and 
springes,  Mr.  Mayor !  Ability  and  education ! 
the  two  worst  man-traps  that  a  poor  fellow  can 
put  his  foot  into !  Aha !  Did  not  you  say  if 
you  had  set  up  to  be  clever,  you  would  not  be 
where  3"ou  now  are?  A  wise  saying;  I  admire 
you  for  it.  Well,  well,  I  and  my  dog  have 
amused  your  townsfolk  ;  they  have  amply  repaid 
us.  We  are  public  sen-ants;  according  as  we 
act  in  public — hiss  us  or  applaud.  xVre  we  to 
submit  to  an  inquisition  into  our  private  charac- 
ter? Are  you  to  ask  how  many  mutton  bones 
has  that  dog  stolen  I  how  many  cats  has  he  wor- 
ried! or  how  many  shirts  has  the  showman  in 
his  wallet !  how  many  debts  has  he  left  behind 
him !  what  is  his  rent-roll  on  earth,  and  his  ac- 
count with  heaven! — go  and  put  those  questions 
to  ministers,  philosophers,  generals,  poets.  When 
they  have  acknowledged  your  right  to  put  them, 
come  to  me  and  the  other  dog!" 

Mr.  Haktopp  (rising  and  drawing  on  his 
ploves).  '■  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  have  done.  Sir. 
And  yet  I  conceived  an  interest  in  you.  It  is 
because  I  have  no  talents  myself  that  I  admire 
those  who  have.  I  felt  a  mournful  anxiety,  too, 
for  your  poor  little  girl — so  young,  so  engaging. 
And  is  it  necessaiy  that  you  should  bring  up 
that  child  in  a  course  of  life  certainly  equivocal, 
and  to  females  dangerous?" 

The  Comedian  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly,  and 
stared  hard  at  the  face  of  his  visitor,  and  in  that 
face  there  was  so  much  of  benevolent  humanity 
— so  much  sweetness  contending  with  authori- 
tative rebuke  —  that  the  vagabond's  hardihood 
gave  way ;  he  struck  his  breast  and  groaned 
aloud. 

Mr.  Haetopp  (pressing  on  the  advantage  he 
had  gained).  "And  have  you  no  alarm  for  her 
health?  Do  you  not  see  how  delicate  she  is? 
Do  you  not  see  that  her  very  talent  comes  from 
her  susceptibility  to  emotions,  which  must  wear 
her  away  ?" 

Waife.  "No,  no!  stop,  stop,  stop!  you  ter- 
rify me,  you  break  my  heart.  Man,  man  I  it  is 
all  for  her  that  I  toil,  and  show,  and  beg — if  you 
call  it  begging.  Do  you  think  I  care  what  be- 
comes of  this  battered  hulk  ?  Not  a  straw. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  What !  what !  You  tell  me 
to  confide  in  you — wherefore?  How  can  you 
help  me?  Who  can  help  me?  Would  you 
give  me  employment?  ^\^lat  am  I  fit  for?  No- 
thing! You  could  find  work  and  bread  for  an 
Irish  laborer,  nor  ask  who  or  what  he  was ;  but 
to  a  man  who  strays  toward  you,  seemingly  from 
that  sphere  in  which,  if  Poverty  enters,  she 
drops  a  courtesy,  and  is  called '  genteel,'  you  crj-, 
'  Hold,  produce  your  passport ;  where  are  your 
credential^— references?"  I  have  none.  I  have 
slipped  out  of  the  world  I  once  moved  in.     I 


:  can  no  more  appeal  to  those  I  knew  in  it  than 

if  I  had  transmigrated  from  one  of  yon  stars, 

,  and  said,  '  See  there  what  I  was  once  !'    Oh,  but 

I  you  do  not  think  she  looks  ill! — do  vou?    do 

you  ?     Wretch  that  I  am !     And  I  thought  to 

save  her!" 

The  old  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and 
,  his  cheek  was  as  jjale  as  ashes. 
I      Again  the  good  magistrate  took  his  hand,  but 
■  this  time  the  clasp  was  encouraging.     ''Cheer 
I  tip ;  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way ;  you 
i  justify  the  opinion  I  formed  in  your  favor,  de- 
spite all  circumstances  to  the  contrary.     When 
I  asked  you  to  confide  in  me,  it  was"  not  from 
I  curiosity,  but  because  I  would  serve  you,  if  I 
can.     Reflect  on  what  I  have  said.     True,  vou 
can  know  but  little  of  me.     Learn  what  is  said 
of  me  by  my  neighbors  before  you  trust  me  fur- 
ther.    For  the  rest,  to-morrow  you  will  have 
many  proposals   to   renew  your   performance. 
Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  actively  encourage  it.    I 
;  will  not,  at  least,  interfere  to  your  detriment ; 
\  but — " 

j  "But,"  exclaimed  Waife,  not  much  heeding 
,  this  address — "but  you  think  she  looks  ill?  you 
j  think  this  is  injuring  her  ?  you  think  I  am  mur- 
i  dering  my  grandchild — my  angel  of  life,  my 
,  aU !" 

I      "  Not  so  ;  I  spoke  too  bluntly.     Y'et  still — " 
I      "Yes,  yes;  yet  still — " 

I      "Still,  if  you  love  her  so  dearly,  would  you 

I  blunt  her  conscience  and  love  of  truth  ?     Were 

I  you  not  an  impostor  to-night  ?     Would  you  ask 

her  to  reverence,  and  imitate,  and  pray  for  an 

impostor?" 

"  I  never  saw  it  in  that  light !"  faltered  Waife, 
struck  to  the  soul;  "never,  never,  so  help  me 
Heaven !" 

"I  felt  sure  you  did  not,"  said  the  Mayor; 
"  you  saw  but  the  sport  of  the  thing  ;  you  "took 
to  it  as  a  school-boy.  I  have  known  many  such 
men,  with  high  animal  spirits  like  yours.  Such 
men  err  thoughtlessly;  but  did  they  ever  sin 
consciously,  they  could  not  keep  those  hiu'h  spir- 
its !  Good-night,  Mr.  Chapman,  I  shall  hear 
from  you  again." 

The  door  closed  on  the  form  of  the  visitor; 
Waife's  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  all  the 
deep  lines  upon  brow  and  cheek  stood  forth, 
records  of  mighty  griefs  revived — a  countenance 
so  altered,  now  that  its  innocent  arch  play  was 
gone,  that  you  would  not  have  known  it.  At 
length  he  rose  very  quietly,  took  up  the  candle, 
and  stole  into  Sophy's  room.  Shading  the  light 
with  careful  hand,  he  looked  on  her  face  as  she 
slept.  The  smile  was  still  upon  the  parted  lip 
— the  child  was  still  in  the  fairj-  land  of  dreams. 
But  the  cheek  was  thinner  than  it  had  been 
weeks  ago,  and  the  little  hand  that  rested  on 
the  coverlet  seemed  wasted.  Waife  took  that 
hand  noiselessly  into  his  own ;  it  was  hot  and 
dry.  He  dropped  it  with  a  look  of  unutterable 
fear  and  anguish  ;  and  shaking  his  head  jiite- 
ously,  stole  back  again.  Seating  himself  by  the 
table  at  which  he  had  been  caught  counting  his 
gains,  he  folded  his  arms  and  rooted  his  gaze 
on  the  floor;  and  there,  motionless,  and  as  if 
in  stupefied  suspense  of  thought  itself,  he  sate 
till  the  da^n  crept  over  the  sky — till  the  sun 
shone  into  the  windows.  The  dog,  crouched  at 
his  feet,  sometimes  started  up  and  whined  as  to 
attract  his  notice:    he  did  not  heed  it.     The 


78 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


clock  struck  six,  the  house  bescan  to  stir.  The 
chambermaid  came  into  the  room  ;  Waife  rose 
and  took  his  hat,  brushing  its  nap  mechanically 
with  his  sleeve.  "  Who  did  you  say  was  the 
best  here  ?"  he  asked  with  a  vacant  smile, 
touchincc  the  chambermaid's  arm. 

"Sir!  the  best— what  ?" 

"  The  best  doctor,  ma'am — none  of  your  par- 
ish apothecaries — the  best  physician — Dr.  Gill 
— did  you  say  Gill?  Thank  you;  his  address, 
High  Street.  Close  by,  ma'am."  With  his 
grand  bow,  such  is  habit  I — Gentleman  Waife 
smiled  graciously,  and  left  the  room.  Sir  Isaac 
stretched  himself,  and  followed. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

In  every  civilized  society  there  is  found  a  r.ice  of  men 
who  retain  the  instincts  of  the  aboriginal  cannibal, 
and  live  upon  their  fellow-raen  as  a  natural  food. 
These  interesting  but  formidable  bipeds,  having  caught 
their  victim,  invariably  select  one  part  of  his  body  on 
which  to  fasten  their  relentless  grinders.  The  part 
thus  selected  is  peculiarly  susceptible,  Providence  hav- 
ing made  it  alive  to  the  least  nibble  ;  it  is  situated  just 
above  the  hip-joint,  it  is  protected  by  a  tesuraent  of 
exquisite  fibre,  vulgarly  called  "  the  Breeches  pock- 
et." The  thoroughbred  .Anthropophagite  usually  be- 
gins with  his  own  relations  and  friends;  and  so  long 
a-i  he  confines  hia  voracity  to  the  domestic  circle,  the 
Laws  interfere  little,  if  at  all,  with  his  venerable  pro- 
pensities. But  when  he  has  exhausted  all  that  allows 
itself  to  be  edible  in  the  bosom  of  private  life,  the  Man- 
eater  falls  loo.se  on  Society,  and  takes  to  prowling^ 
then  "  Saitre  qui  pent!"  the  Laws  rouse  themselves, 
put  on  their  spectacles,  call  for  their  wigs  and  gowns, 
and  the  Anthropophagite  tuined  prowler  is  not  always 
sure  of  his  dinner.  It  is  when  he  has  arrived  at  this 
stage  of  development  that  tlis  Man-eater  becomes  of 
importance,  enters  into  the  domain  of  History,  and 
occupies  the  thoughts  of  Moralists. 

On'  the  same  morning  in  which  Waife  thus 
went  forth  from  the  "  Saracen's  Head"  in  quest 
of  the  doctor,  but  at  a  later  hour,  a  man,  who, 
to  judge  by  the  elaborate  smartness  of  his  attire, 
and  the  jaunty  assuranc-e  of  his  saunter,  must 
have  wandered  from  the  gay  purlieus  of  Regent 
Street,  threaded  his  way  along  the  silent  and 
desolate  thoroughfares  that  intersect  the  re- 
motest districts  of  Bloomsbury.  He  stopped  at 
the  turn  into  a  small  street  still  more  seques- 
tered than  those  which  led  to  it,  and  looked  up 
to  the  angle  on  the  wall  wliercon  the  name  of 
the  street  should  have  been  inscribed.  But  the 
wall  had  been  lately  whitewashed,  and  the  white- 
wash had  obliterated  the  expected  epigraph. 
The  man  muttered  an  impatient  execration ; 
and  turning  roimd  as  if  to  seek  a  passenger  of 
whom  to  make  inquiry,  beheld,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  another  man  apparently  engaged 
in  the  same  research.  Involuntarily  each  crossed 
over  the  road  toward  the  otlier. 

"Pray,  Sir,"  quoth  the  second  wayfarer  in 
that  desert,  "can  you  tell  me  if  this  is  a  street 
that  is  called  a  Place— Poddon  Place,  Upper?" 

"Sir,"  returned  the  sprucer  wayfarer,  "it  is 
the  question  I  would  have  asked  of  you." 

"  Strange !" 

"Very  strange  indeed  that  more  than  one 
person  can,  in  this  busy  age,  employ  himself  in 
discovering  a  Poddon  Place !  Not  "a  soul  to  in- 
quire of — not  a  shop  that  I  see — not*an  orange 
stall !" 

"  Ha!"  cried  the  other,  in  a  hoarse  sepulchral 
voice — "Ha!  there  is  a  pot-boy!     Boy — boy — 


boy!  I  say;  Hold,  there!  hold!  Is  this  Pod- 
don Place — Upper?" 

"Yes,  it  be,"  answered  the  pot-boy,  with  a 
sleepy  air,  caught  in  that  sleepy  atmosphere ; 
and  chiming  his  pewter  against  an  area  rail 
with  a  dull  clang,  he  chanted  forth  "  Pots  oho !" 
with  a  note  as  dirge-like  as  that  which  in  the 
City  of  the  Plague  chanted  "Out  with  the 
dead!" 

Meanwhile  the  two  wayfarers  exchanged  bows 
and  parted — the  sprucer  wayfarer,  whether  from 
the  indulgence  of  a  reflective  mood,  or  from  an 
habitual  indifterence  to  things  and  persons  not 
concerning  him,  ceased  to  notice  his  fellow- 
solitary,  and  rather  busied  himself  in  sundry 
little  coquetries  appertaining  to  his  own  person. 
He  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  rearranged 
the  cock  of  his  hat,  looked  complacently  at  his 
boots,  which  still  retained  the  gloss  of  the  morn- 
ing's varnish,  drew  down  his  wristbands,  and, 
in  a  word,  gave  sign  of  a  man  who  desires  to 
make  au  et!'ect,  and  feels  that  he  ought  to  do  it. 
So  occupied  was  he  in  this  self-commune,  that 
when  he  stopped  at  length  at  one  of  the  small 
doors  in  the  small  street,  and  lifted  his  hand  to 
the  knocker,  he  started  to  see  that  Wayfarer  the 
Second  was  by  his  side. 

The  two  men  now  examined  each  other 
briefly  but  deliberately.  Wayfarer  the  First 
was  still  young — certainly  handsome,  but  with 
an  indescribable  look  about  the  eye  and  lip, 
from  which  the  other  recoiled  with  an  instinct- 
ive awe — a  hard  look,  a  cynical  look — a  side- 
long, quiet,  defying,  remorseless  look.  His 
clothes  were  so  new  of  gloss,  that  they  seemed 
put  on  for  the  first  time,  were  shaped  to  the  pre- 
vailing fashion,  and  of  a  taste  for  colors  less 
subdued  than  is  usual  with  Englishmen,  yet  still 
such  as  a  person  of  good  mien  could  wear  with- 
out incurring  the  charge  of  vulgarity,  though 
liable  to  that  of  self-conceit.  If  you  doubted 
that  the  man  were  a  gentleman,  you  would  have 
been  puzzled  to  guess  what  else  he  could  be. 
Were  it  not  for  the  look  we  have  mentioned, 
and  which  was  perhaps  not  habitual,  his  appear- 
ance might  have  been  called  prepossessing.  In 
his  figure  there  was  the  grace,  in  his  step  the 
elasticity,  which  come  from  just  proportions  and 
muscular  strength.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a 
supple  switch  stick,  slight  and  innocuous  to  ap- 
pearance, but  weighted  at  the  handle  after  the 
fashion  of  a  life-preserver.  The  tone  of  his 
voice  was  not  displeasing  to  the  ear,  though 
there  might  be  something  artificial  in  the  swell 
of  it — the  sort  of  tone  men  assume  when  they 
desire  to  seem  more  frank  and  oflf-hand  than 
belongs  to  their  nature — a  sort  of  rollicking 
tone  which  is  to  the  voice  what  swagger  is  to  the 
gait.  Still  that  look ! — it  produced  on  you  the 
effect  which  might  be  created  by  sume  strange 
animal,  not  without  beauty,  but  deadly  to  man. 
Wayfarer  the  Second  was  big  and  burly,  middle- 
aged,  large-whiskered,  his  complexion  dirty. 
He  wore  a  wig — a  wig  evident,  unmistakable 
— a  wig  curled  and  rusty — over  the  wig  a  dingy 
white  hat.  His  black  stock  fitted  tight  round 
his  throat,  and  across  his  breast  he  had  thrown 
the  folds  of  a  Scotch  plaid. 

Waitarer  the  First.  "  You  call  here,  too 
— on  Mrs.  Crane?" 

Wayf.\rer  the  Second.  "Mrs. "Crane?  — 
you  too  ?  Strange !" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


79 


Wattaekr  the  FmsT  (with  constrained  ci- 
vilitv).  "  Sir,  I  call  on  business — private  busi- 
ness." 

Watfaeek  the  Second  (with  candid  surli- 
ness). "  So  do  I." 

WaTFAKER  THE  FlKST.    "Oh!" 

Wayfarer  the  Secosd.  '•  Ha  I  the  locks  un- 
bar I"' 

The  door  opened,  and  an  old  meagre  woman- 
sen-ant  presented  herself. 

Wayfarer  the  First  (gliding  before  the  big 
man  with  a  serpent's  undulating  celerity  of 
movement;.  "  ilrs.  Crane  lives  here?" — "  Yes." 
"  She's  at  home,  I  suppose  ?"' — '•  Yes  I"  "Take 
up  my  card ;  say  I  come  alone — not  with  this 
gentleman." 

Wavfarer  the  Second  seems  to  have  been 
rather  put  out  by  the  manner  of  his  rival.  He 
recedes  a  step. 

"You  know  the  ladv  of  this  mansion  well, 
Sir?" 

"  Extremely  well." 

"  Ha  I  then  I  yield  you  the  precedence ;  I 
yield  it,  Sir,  but  conditionally.  Y'ou  will  not  be 
long?" 

"  Not  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help ;  the 
land  will  be  clear  for  you  in  an  hour  or  less." 

"Or  less,  so  please  you,  let  it  be  or  less. 
Servant,  Sir." 

"Sir,  yours. — Come,  my  Hebe;  track  the 
dancers,  that  is,  go  up  the  stairs,  and  let  me  re- 
new the  dreams  of  youth  in  the  eyes  of  Crane !" 

The  old  woman,  meanwhile,  had  been  turning 
over  the  card  in  her  ^vithered  palm,  looking  from 
the  card  to  the  visitor's  face,  and  then  to  the 
card  again,  and  mumbling  to  herself.  At  length 
she  spoke : 

"Y'^ou,  Mr.'  Losely — you  I — Jasper  Losely! 
how  you  be  changed  I  what  ha'  ye  done  to  your- 
self? where's  your  comeliness  ?  where's  the  look 
that  stole  ladies'  hearts  ? — you,  Jasper  Losely ! 
you  are  his  goblin  I" 

"  Hold  your  peace,  old  hussey  I"  said  the  visit- 
or, evidently  annoyed  at  remarks  so  disparaging. 
"I  am  Jasper  Losely,  more  bronzed  of  cheek, 
more  iron  of  hand."  He  raised  his  switch  with 
a  threatening  gesture,  that  might  be  in  play; 
for  the  lips  wore  smiles,  or  might  be  in  eJhiest, 
for  the  brows  were  benf ;  and  pushing  into  the 
passage,  and  shutting  the  door,  said — "Is  your 
mistress  up  stairs  ?  show  me  to  her  room,  or — " 
The  old  crone  gave  him  one  angry  glance,  which 
sunk  frightened  beneath  the  cruel  gleam  of  his 
eyes,  and  hastening  up  the  stairs  with  a  quicker 
stride  than  her  age  seemed  to  warrant,  cried  out 
— "Mistress,  mistress  I  here  is  Mr,  Losely! — 
Jasper  Losely  himself  1"  By  the  time  the  visit- 
or had  reached  the  landing-place  of  the  fii^st 
floor,  a  female  form  had  emerged  from  a  room 
above ; — a  female  face  peered  over  the  banisters. 
Losely  looked  up  and  started  as  he  saw  it.  A 
haggard  face — the  face  of  one  over  whose  life 
there  has  passed  a  blight.  When  last  seen  by 
him  it  had  possessed  beauty,  though  of  a  mas- 
culine rather  than  womanly  character.  Now  of 
that  beauty  not  a  trace  1  the  cheeks  sunken  and 
hollow,  left  the  nose  sharp,  long,  beaked  as  a 
bird  of  prey.  The  hair,  once  glossy  in  its  ebon 
hue,  now  grizzled,  harsh,  neglected,  hung  in 
tortured  tangled  meshes — a  study  for  an  artist 
who  would  paint  a  fury.  But  the  eyes  were 
bright — brighter  than  ever ;  bright  now  with  a 


glare  that  lighted  up  the  whole  face  bending 
over  the  man.  In  those  burning  eyes  was  there 
love  ?  was  there  hate  ?  was  there  welcome  ?  was 
there  menace  ?  Impossible  to  distinguish  ;  but 
at  least  one  might  perceive  that  there  was  joy. 

"So,"  said  the  voice  from  above,  "so  we  do 
meet  at  last,  Jasper  Losely ;  you  are  come  !" 

Drawing  a  loose  kind  of  dressing-robe  more 
closely  round  her,  the  mistress  of  the  house  now 
descended  the  stairs— rapidly,  flittingly,  with  a 
step  noiseless  as  a  spectre's,  and,  grasjiingLose- 
ly  firmly  by  the  hand,  led  him  into  a  chill,  dank, 
sunless  drawing-room,  gazing  into  his  face  fix- 
edly all  the  while. 

He  winced  and  writhed.  "There,  there,  let 
us  sit  down,  my  dear  Mrs.  Crane." 

"  And  once  I  was  called  Bella," 

"Ages  ago!  Basta!  All  things  have  their 
end.  Do  take  those  eyes  of  yours  off  my  face ; 
they  were  always  so  bright  I — and  really  now 
they  are  perfect  burning  glasses !  How  close  it 
is.  Peuh !  I  am  dead  tired.  ^lay  I  ask  for  a 
glass  of  water — a  drop  of  wine  in  it — or — bran- 
dy will  do  as  well  ?" 

"  Ho  !  yon  have  come  to  brandy,  and  morning 
drams — eh,  Jasper?"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  with  a 
strange,  dreary  accent.  "I  too  once  tried  if 
fire  could  bum  up  thought,  but  it  did  not  suc- 
ceed with  me  ;  that  is  years  ago ; — and — there 
— see,  the  bottles  are  full  still !" 

While  thus  speaking,  she  had  unlocked  a 
chiffonier  of  the  shape  usually  found  in  "gen- 
teel lodgings,"  and  taken  out  a  leather  spirit- 
case  containing  four  bottles,  with  a  couple  of 
wine-glasses.  This  case  she  placed  on  the  table 
before  Mr.  Losely,  and  contemplated  him  at  leis- 
ure while  he  helped  himself  to  the  raw  spirits. 

As  she  thus  stood,  an  acute  student  of  Lava- 
ter  might  have  recognized,  in  her  harsh  and 
wasted  countenance,  signs  of  an  original  nature 
superior  to  that  of  her  visitor ;  on  her  knitted 
brow,  a  sense  higher  in  quality  than  on  his 
smooth,  low  forehead;  on  her  straight,  stem 
lip,  less  cause  for  distnist  than  in  the  false  good- 
humor  which  curved  his  handsome  mouth  into 
that  smile  of  the  fickle,  which,  responding  to 
mirth  but  not  to  affection,  is  often  lighted  and 
never  warmed.  It  is  true  that  in  that  set  press- 
ure of  her  lip  there  might  be  cruelty,  and,  still 
more,  the  secretiveness  which  can  harbor  de- 
ceit ;  and  yet,  by  the  nenous  workings  of  that 
lip,  when  relieved  from  such  pressure,  you  would 
judge  the  woman  to  be  rather  by  natural  tem- 
perament passionate  and  impulsive  than  sys- 
tematically cruel  or  deliberately  false — false  or 
cruel  only  as  some  predominating  passion  be- 
came the  soul's  absolute  tvrant,  and  adopted  the 
tyrant's  vices.  Above  all,  in  those  very  lines  de- 
structive to  beauty,  that  had  been  plowed,  not 
by  time,  over  her  sallow  cheekS,  there  was  writ- 
ten the  susce])tibility  to  grief,  to  shame,  to  the 
sense  of  fall,  which  was  not  visible  in  the  unre- 
flective  reckless  aspect  of  the  sleek  human  ani- 
mal before  her. 

In  the  room,  too,  there  were  some  evidences 
of  a  cultivated  taste.  On  the  walls,  book- 
shelves, containing  volumes  of  a  decorous  and 
severe  literature,  such  as  careful  parents  allow 
to  studious  daughters — the  stately  master-pieces 
of  Fenelon  and  Racine — selections,  approved  by 
boarding-schools,  from  Tasso,  Dante,  Metasta- 
sio ; — among  English  authors,  Addison,  John- 


80 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


son,  Blair  (his  lectures  as  well  as  sermons) — ;  bounding  all  return  for  loval  sacrifice  to  the 
elementary  works  on  such  sciences  as  admit  fe-  honor  you  vouchsafed  in  accepting  it !" 
male  neophytes  into  their  porticoes  if  not  into  Uttering  this  embittered  irony,  which  never- 
their  penetralia — botany,  chemistry,  astronomy,  theless  seemed  rather  to  please  than  to  offend 
Prim  as  soldiers  on  parade  stood  the  books — not  ^  her  guest,  she  kept  moving  about  the  room,  and 
a  gap  in  their  ranks — evidently  never  now  dis-  i  (whether  from  some  drawer  in  the  furniture,  or 
placed  for  recreation — well  bound,  yet  faded,  :  from  her  own  person,  Losely's  careless  eye  did 
dnsty . — relics  of  a  by-gone  life.  Some  of  them  not  observe)  she  suddenly  drew  forth  a  minia- 
miglit'  perliaps  have"  been  prizes  at  school,  or  ture,  and,  placing  it  before  him,  exclaimed, 
birth-dav  gifts  from  proud  relations.  There,  :  "  Ah,  but  you  are  altered  from  those  days — see 
too,  on  the  table,  near  the  spirit-case,  lay  open  what  you  then  were  I"  Losely's  gaze  thus  abrupt- 
a  once  handsome  work-box — no  silks  now  on  ly  invited,  fixed  itself  on  the  effigies  of  a  youth 
the  skeleton  reels— discolored,  but  not  by  use,  eminently  handsome,  and  of  that  kind  of  beauty 
in  its  nest  of  tarnished  silk,  slept  the  golden  which,  without  being  effeminate,  approaches  to 
thimble.  There,  too,  in  the  corner,  near  a  mu-  the  fineness  and  brilliancy  of  the  female  coun- 
sic-stand  piled  high  with  musical  compositions  tenance — a  beauty  which  renders  its  possessor 
of  various  schools  and  graduated  complexity,  inconveniently  conspicuous,  and  too  often,  by 
from  ''lessons  for  beginners"  to  the  most  ardu-  winning  that  ready  admiration  which  it  costs  no 
ous  gamut  of  a  Gerroan  oratorio,  slunk  pathet-  effort  to  obtain,  withdraws  the  desire  of  applause 
ically  a  poor  lute  harp,  the  strings  long  since  from  successes  to  be  achieved  by  labor,  and  hard- 
broken.  There,  too,  by  the  window,  hung  a  ens  egotism  by  the  excuses  it  lends  to  self-es- 
wire  bird-cage,  the  bird' long  since  dead.  In  a  teem.  It  is  true  that  this  handsome  face  had 
word,  round  The  woman  gazing  on  Jasper  Losely,  not  the  elevation  bestowed  by  thoughtful  ex- 
as  he'  complacently  drank  his  brandy,  grouped  pression :  but  thoughtful  expression  is  not  the 
the  forlorn  tokens  of  an  early  state — the  lost  attribute  a  painter  seeks  to  give  to  the  abstract 
golden  age  of  happy  girlish  studies,  of  harmless  comeliness  of  early  youth — and  it  is  seldom  to 
■■•irlish  taltes.  '  ■  be  acquired  without  that  constitutional  wear  and 

"  Basta — eno',''  said  Mr.  Losely,  pushing  aside  tear  which  is  injurious  to  mere  physical  beauty, 
the  glass  which  he  had  twice  filled  and  twice  And  over  the  whole  countenance  was  diffused  a 
drained — "  to  business.     Let  me  see  the  child —  \  sunny  light,  the  freshness  of  thoughtless  health, 


I  feel  up  to  it  now." 

A  darker  shade  fell  over  Arabella  Crane's 
face  as  she  said : 

"The  child — she  is  not  here!  I  have  dis- 
posed of  her  long  ago." 

"Eh I  disposed  of  her!  what  do  you  mean?" 


of  luxuriant  vigor,  so  that  even  that  arrogant 
vanity  which  an  acute  observer  might  have  de- 
tected as  the  prevailing  mental  characteristic, 
seemed  but  a  glad  exultation  in  the  gifts  of  be- 
nignant nature.  Not  there  the  look  which,  in 
the  matured  man  gazing  on  the  briglit  ghost  of 


Do  you  ask  as  if  you  feared  I  "had  put  her  his  former  self,  might  have  daunted  the  timid 
out  of  the  world?  No"!  Well,  then — you  come  and  warned  the  wise.  "And  I  was  like  this, 
to  England  to  see  the  child  ?  You  miss — you  ,  True  I  I  remember  well  when  it  was  taken,  and 
love,  the  child  of  that — of  that — "  She  paused,  '  no  one  called  it  flattering,"  said  Mr.  Losely,  with 
checked  herself,  and  added  in  an  altered  voice  pathetic  self-condolence.  "  But  I  can't  be  very 
— "of  that  honest,  high-minded  gentlewoman,  much  changed,"  he  added,  with  a  half  laugh, 
whose  memory  must  be  so  dear  to  me — you  love    "At   my  age  one  may  have  a  manlier  look, 


that  child;  very  natural,  Jasper." 

"  Love  her!  a  child  I  have  scarcely  seen  since 
she  was  born ! — do  talk  common  sense.  No. 
But  have  I  not  told  you  that  she  ought  to  be 
money's  worth  to  me — ay,  and  she  shall  be  yet, 
despite  that  proud  man's  disdainful  insolence 


yet — 

"Yet  still  be  handsome,  Jasper,"  said  Mrs. 
Crane.  ' '  You  are  so.  But  look  at  me — what 
am  I  ?" 

'•  Oh,  a  yen,'  fine  woman,  my  dear  Crane — 
always  were.     But  you  neglect  yourself;   you 


'That  proud  man — what !  you  have  ventured  should  not  do  that ;  keep  it  up  to  the  last.  Well, 
to  address  him — visit  him — since  your  return  to  but  to  return  to  the  child.  You  have  disposed 
England  ?"  of  her  without  my  consent,  without  letting  me 

"  Of  course.     That's  what  brought  me  over,  i  know." 
I  imagined  the  man  would  rejoice  at  what  I  told  |      "Letting  you  know !     How  many  years  is  if 
him — -open   his  purse-strings — lavish  blessings    since  you  even  gave  me  your  address?    Never 
and  bank-notes.     And  the  brute  would  not  even    fear,  she  is  in  good  hands." 
believe  me — all  because — "  i      "Whose?     At  all  events  I  must  see  her." 

"Because  you  had  sold  the  right  to  be  be-        "See  her!     "VMiat  for?" 
lieved  before."  I  told  you,  when  I  took  the  child,  ,      "  'SMiat  for !     Hang  it,  it  is  natural  that,  now 
that  you  w^ould   never  succeed   there — that  I    I  am  in  England,  I  should  at  least  wish  to  know 
would  never  encourage  you  in  the  attempt.   But ,  what  she  is  like.     And  I  think  it  very  strange 


you  had  sold  the  futtu-e,  as  you  sold  your  past 
— too  cheaply,  it  seems,  Jasper." 

"Too  cheaply,  indeed.  Who  could  ever  have 
supposed  that  I  should  have  been  fobbed  off  with 
such  a  pittance  ?" 

"Who,  indeed,  Jasper!  You  were  made  to 
spend  fortunes,  and  call  them  pittances  when 
spent,  Jasper !  You  should  have  been  a  prince, 
Jasper — such  princely  tastes!  Trinkets  and 
dress,  horses  and  dice,  and  plenty  of  ladies  to 
look  and   die!     Such  princely   spirit    too! — 


that  you  should  send  her  away,  and  then  make 
all  these  difficulties.  "SMiat's  your  object?  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"My  object!  What  could  be  my  object  but 
to  serve  you  ?  At  your  request  I  took,  fed,  rear- 
ed a  child,  whom  you  could  not  expect  me  to 
love,  at  my  own  cost.  Did  I  ever  ask  you  for  a 
shilling  ?  '  Did  I  ever  suffer  you  to  give  me  one  ? 
Never !  At  last,  hearing  no  more  from  you,  and 
what  little  I  heard  of  yon,  making  me  think  that 
if  any  thing  happened  to  me  (and  I  was  very  ill 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


81 


at  the  time),  you  could  only  find  her  a  burden  ;  "  Hanged!"  said  Mrs.  Crane, 
at  last,  I  sav,  the  old  man  came  to  me — you  had  "  Of  course,  hanged,"  returned    Losely,  re- 
given  him  my  address — and  he  oftered  to  take  suming  the  reckless  voice  and  manner  in  which 
her,  and  I  consented.     She  is  with  him."  there  was  that  peculiar  levity  which  comes  from 
"The   old   man!     She   is  with    him!     And  hardness  of  heart,  as  from  the  steel's  hardness 


where  is  he  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Humph !     How  does  he  live  ? 
got  any  money  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Did  any  old  friends  take  him  up  ?" 
Would  he  go  to  old  friends 


comes  the  blade's  play.     "But  if  a  man  did  not 

sometimes  forget  consequences,  there  would  be 

Can  he  have  ,  an  end  of  the  gallows.     I  am  glad  that  his  eye 

j  never  left  mine."     And  the  leaden  head  of  the 

,  switch  fell  with  a  dull,  dumb  sound  on  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Crane  made  no  immediate  rejoinder,  but 

fixed  on  her  lawless  visitor  a  cazc  in  which  there 


Mr.  Losely  tossed  off  two  fresh  glasses  of  |  was  no  womanly  fear  (though  Loscly'sasiiect  and 
brandy,  one  after  the  other,  and,  rising,  walked  |  gesture  might  have  sent  a  thrill  tlnough  the 
to  and  fro  the  room,  his  hands  buried  in  his  \  nerves  of  many  a  hardy  man),  but  wiiich  was  not 
pockets,  and  in  no  comfortable  vein  of  reflec-  without  womanly  compassion,  her  countenance 
tion.  At  length  he  paused,  and  said,  "Well,  !  gradually  softening  more  and  more,  as  jf  under 
upon  the  whole,  I  don't  see  what  I  could  do  the  influence  of  recollections  mournful  but  not 
with  the  girl  just  at  present,  though,  of  course,  hostile.  At  length  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
I  ought  to  know  where  she  is,  and  with  whom.  "Poor  Jasper!  Is  all  the  vain  ambition  that 
Telline,  Mrs.  Crane,  what  is  she  like — pretty  made  you  so  false  shrunk  into  a  ferocity  that 
or  plain  ?"  finds  you  so  powerless  ?    Would  your  existence, 

"  I  suppose  the  chit  would  be  called  pretty —  after  all,  have  been  harder,  poorer,  meaner,  if 
by  some  persons  at  least."  ,  your  faith  had  been  kept  to  me !" 

'  "  T'f ''3/  pretty  ?  handsome  ?"  asked  Losely,  ab-  I      Evidently  disliking  that  turn  in  the  conversa- 
ruptlv.  '  tion,  but  checking  a  reply  that  might  have  been 

"  Handsome   or   not,  what  does   it  signify  ?    rude  had  no  visions  of  five  pounds — ten  pounds 
what  good  comes  of  beauty  ?     You  had  beauty    — loomed  in  the  distance,  Mr.  Losely  said, 
enough ;  what  have  you  done  with  it  ?"  '  i      "  Pshaw  !  Bella,  pshaw !     I  was  a  fool,  I  dare 

At  that  question  Losely  drew  himself  up  with  !  say,  and  a  sad  dog — a  very  sad  dog ;  but  I  had 
a  sudden  loftiness  of  look  and  gesture,  which,  always  the  greatest  regard  for  you,  and  always 
though  prompted  but  by  oflended  vanity,  im-  shall!  Hillo,  what's  that?  A  knock  at  the 
proved  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  and  door !  Oh,  by-the-by,  a  queer-looking  man,  in 
restored  to  it  much  of  its  earlier  character.  '  a  white  hat,  called  at  the  same  time  I  did,  to 
Mrs.  Crane  gazed  on  him,  startled  into  admira-  I  see  you  on  private  business — gave  way  to  me — 
tion,  and  it  was  in  an  altered  voice,  half  re-  j  said  he  should  come  again ;  may  I  ask  who  he 
proachful,  half  bitter,  that  she  continued —  is  ?" 

"And  now  that  you  are  satisfied  about  her,         "I  can  not  guess;  no  one  ever  calls  here  on 
have  vou  no  questions  to  ask  about  me — what    business,  except  the  tax-gatherer." 
I  do— ^how  I  live?"  The  old  woman-servant  now  entered.     "A 

"ily  dear  :Mrs.  Crane,  I  know  that  you  are  i  gentleman,  ma'am— says  his  name  is  Rugge." 
comfortably  ofi",  and  were  never  of  a  mercenary  |      "Rugge — Rugge— let  me  think." 


temper.  I  trust  you  are  happy,  and  so  forth — 
I  wish  I  were ;  things  don't  prosper  with  me. 
If  you  could  conveniently  lend  me  a  five-pound 
note — " 

* '  You  would  borrow  of  me,  Jasper  ?  Ah ! 
you  come  to  me  in  your  troubles.  You  shall 
have  the  money — five  pounds — ten  pounds — 
what  you  please,  but  you  will  call  again  for  it  ? 
you  need  me  now — you  will  not  utterly  desert 
me  now?" 

' '  Best  of  creatures !  never !"  He  seized  her 
hand,  and  kissed  it.  She  withdrew  it  quickly 
from  his  clasp,  and,  glancing  over  him  from 
head  to  foot,  said,  "But  are  you  really  in  need? 
you  are  well-dressed,  Jasper;  that  you  always 
were." 

"Xot  always;  three  days  ago  very  much  the 
reverse ;  but  I  have  had  a  trifling  aid,  and — " 

"Aid  in  England?  from  whom?  where?  Not 
from  him  whom,  you  say,  you  had  the  courage 
to  seek  ?" 

"From  whom  else?  Have  I  no  claim?  A 
miserable  alms  flung  to  me.  Curse  him !  I  tell 
you  that  man's  look  and  language  so  galled  me 
— so  galled,"  echoed  Losely,  shifting  his  hold 
from  the  top  of  his  switch  to  the  centre,  and 
bringing  the  murderous  weight  of  the  lead  down 
on  the  palm  of  his  other  hand,  "  that,  if  his  eye 
had  quitted  me  for  a  moment,  I  think  I  must 
have  brained  him,  and  been — " 


I  am  here,  Mrs.  Crane,"  said  the  manager, 
striding  in.  "You  don't  perhaps  call  me  to 
mind  by  name ;  but — oho — not  gone,  Sir !  Do 
I  intrude  prematurely?" 

"Xo,  I  have  done;  good-day,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Crane." 

"Stay,  Jasper.  I  remember  you  now,  Mr. 
Rugge  ;  take  a  chair." 

She  whispered  a  few  words  into  Losely's  ear, 
then  turned  to  the  manager,  and  said  aloud, 
"  I  saw  you  at  ^Ir.  Waife's  lodging,  at  the  time 
he  had  that  bad  accident." 

"And  I  had  the  honor  to  accompany  you 
home,  ma'am,  and — hut  shall  I  speak  out  be- 
fore this  gentleman?" 

"  Certainly ;  you  see  he  is  listening  to  you 
with  attention.  This  gentleman  and  I  have  no 
secrets  from  each  other.  What  has  become  of 
that  person  ?     Tiiis  gentleman  wishes  to  know." 

Losely.  "Y'es,  Sir,  I  wish  to  know— particu- 
larly." 

RcGGE.  "  So  do  I ;  that  is  partly  what  I  came 
about.  You  are  aware,  I  think,  ma'am,  that  I 
engaged  him  and  Juliet  Araminta  —  that  is, 
Sophy." 

Losely.  "Sophy— engaged  them.  Sir — how?" 

Rugge.  "Theatrical  line.  Sir— Rugge's  Ex- 
hibition ;  he  was  a  great  actor  once,  that  fellow 
Waife." 

Loselt.  "Ob,  actor! — well,  Sir,  go  on." 


82 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


RuGGE  (who  in  the  course  of  his  address  turns 
from  the  lady  to  the  gentleman,  from  the  gentle- 
man to  the  lady,  with  appropriate  gesture  and 
appealing  look).  "But  he  became  a  wreck,  a 
block  of  a  man ;  lost  an  eye  and  his  voice  too. 
However,  to  serve  him,  I  took  his  grandchild  and 
him  too.  He  left  me — shamefully,  and  ran  off 
with  his  grandchild,  Sir.  Now,  ma'am,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  that  little  girl  I  looked  upon  as 
my  property — a  very  valuable  property.  She  is 
worth  a  great  deal  to  me,  and  I  have  been  done 
out  of  her.  If  you  can  help  me  to  get  her  back, 
articled  and  engaged  say  for  three  years,  I  am 
willing  and  happy,  ma'am,  to  pay  something 
handsome — uncommon  handsome." 

Mrs.  Ckane  (loftily).  "  Speak  to  that  gentle- 
man— he  may  treat  with  you." 

LosELT.  "  Whatdo  you  call  uncommon  hand- 
some, Mr. — Mr.  Tugge?" 

RuGGE.  "Rugge!  Sir;  we  shan't  disagree,  I 
hope,  provided  you  have  the  power  to  get  Waife 
to  bind  the  girl  to  me." 

LosELY.  "I  may  have  the  power  to  transfer 
the  young  lady  to  your  care ;  young  lady  is  a 
more  respectful  phrase  than  girl ;  and  possibly 
to  dispense  with  Mr.  Waife's  consent  to  such  ar- 
rangement. But  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I  must 
know  a  little  more  of  yourself  before  I  could 
promise  to  exert  such  a  power  on  your  behalf." 

Rugge.  "Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  improve 
our  acquaintance.  As  to  Waife,  the  old  vaga- 
bond, he  has  injured  and  alfronted  me.  Sir.  I 
don't  bear  malice,  but  I  have  a  spirit — Britons 
have  a  sjjirit,  Sir.  And  you  will  remember, 
ma'am,  tluit  when  I  accompanied  you  home,  I 
observed  that  Mr.  Waife  was  a  mysterious  man, 
and  had  apparently  known  better  days,  and  that 
when  a  man  is  mysterious,  and  falls  into  the 
sear  and  yellow  leaf,  ma'am,  without  that  which 
should  accompany  old  age.  Sir,  one  has  a  right 
to  suspect  that  some  time  or  other  he  has  done 
something  or  otiier,  ma'am,  which  makes  him 
fear  lest  the  very  stones  prate  of  his  where- 
abouts. Sir.  And  you  did  not  deny,  ma'am, 
that  the  mystery  was  suspicious,  but  you  said, 
with  uncommon  good  sense,  that  it  was  nothing 
to  me  what  Mr.  Waife  had  once  been,  so  long 
as  he  was  of  use  to  me  at  that  particular  season. 
Since  then,  Sir,  he  has  ceased  to  be  of  use — 
ceased,  too,  in  tlie  unhandsomest  manner.  And 
if  you  would,  ma'am,  from  a  sense  of  justice, 
just  unravel  the  mystery,  put  me  in  possession 
of  the  secret,  it  might  make  that  base  man  of 
use  to  me  again — give  me  a  handle  over  him. 
Sir,  so  that  I  might  awe  him  into  restoring  my 
property,  as,  morally  speaking,  Juliet  Araminta 
most  undoubtedly  is.  That's  M'hy  I  call — leav- 
ing my  company,  to  which  I  am  a  father,  or- 
phans for  the  present.  But  I  have  missed  that 
little  girl — that  young  lady.  Sir.  I  called  her  a 
phenomenon,  ma'am — missed  her  much — it  is 
natural.  Sir ;  I  appeal  to  you.  No  man  can  be 
done  out  of  a  valuable  property  and  not  feci  it, 
if  he  has  a  heart  in  his  bosom.  And  if  I  had 
her  back  safe,  I  should  indulge  ambition.  I  have 
always  had  ambition.  The  theatre  at  York,  Sir 
— that  is  my  ambition;  I  had  it  from  a  child, 
Sir;  dreamed  of  it  three  times,  ma'am.  If  I 
had  back  my  property  in  that  phenomenon,  I 
would  go  at  the  thing,  slap  bang,  take  the  York, 
and  bring  out  the  phenomenon,  with  a  claw  !" 
LosELY  (musingly).    "You   say  the  young 


lady  is  a  phenomenon,  and  for  this  phenomenon 
you  are  willing  to  pay  something  handsome — a 
vague  expression.     Put  it  into  £  s.  d." 

RcGGE.  "  Sir,  if  she  can  be  bound  to  me  le- 
gally for  three  years,  I  would  give  £100.  I  did 
oti'er  to  Waife  £50— to  you.  Sir,  £100." 

Losely's  eyes  flashed  and  his  hands  opened 
restlessly.  "But,  confound  it,  where  is  she? 
have  you  no  clew  ?" 

Rugge.  "No,  but  we  can  easily  find  one; 
it  was  not  worth  my  while  to  hunt  them  up  be- 
fore I  was  quite  sure  that,  if  I  regained  my 
property  in  that  phenomenon,  the  law  would 
protect  it." 

Mrs.  Crane  (moving  to  the  door).  "Well, 
Jasper  Losely,  you  will  sell  the  young  lady,  I 
doubt  not ;  and  when  you  have  sold  her,  let  me 
know."  She  came  back  and  whispered,  "You 
will  not  perhaps  now  want  money  from  me,  but 
I  shall  see  you  again  ;  for,  if  you  would  find  the 
child,  you  will  need  my  aid." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  friend,  I  will  call  again  ; 
honor  bright." 

Mrs.  Crane  here  bowed  to  the  gentlemen,  and 
swept  out  of  the  room. 

Thus  left  alone,  Losely  and  Rugge  looked  at 
each  other  with  a  shy  and  yet  cunning  gaze — 
Rugge's  hands  in  his  trowsers  pockets,  liis  head 
thrown  back — Losely's  hands  involuntarily  ex- 
panded, his  head  bewitching'}'  bent  forward,  and 
a  little  on  one  side. 

"Sir,"  said  Rugge  at  length,  "what  do  you 
say  to  a  chop  and  a  pint  of  wine  ?  Rerhajis  we 
could  talk  more  at  our  ease  elsewhere.  I  am 
only  in  town  for  a  day — left  my  company  thirty 
miles  off — orphans,  as  I  said  before." 

"  Mr.  Rugge,"  said  Losely,  "  I  have  no  desire 
to  stay  in  London,  or  indeed  in  England ;  and 
the  sooner  we  can  settle  this  matter  the  better. 
Grant  that  we  find  the  young  lady,  you  provide 
for  her  board  and  lodging — teach  her  your  hon- 
orable profession — behave,  of  course,  kindly  to 
her — " 

"  Like  a  father." 

"And  give  to  me  the  sum  of  £100?" 

"  That  is,  if  you  can  legally  make  her  over  to 
me.  But,  Sir,  may  I  inquire  by  what  authority 
you  would  act  in  this  matter?" 

"On  that  head  it  will  be  easy  to  satisfy  you; 
meanwhile  I  accept  your  proposal  of  an  early 
dinner.     Let  us  adjourn — is  it  to  your  house  ?" 

"I  have  no  exact  private  house  in  London; 
but  I  know  a  public  one — commodious." 

"  Be  it  so.     After  you.  Sir." 

As  they  descended  the  stairs,  the  old  woman- 
servant  stood  at  the  street  door.  Rugge  went 
out  first — the  woman  detained  Losely. 

"Do  you  find  her  altered?" 

"Whom?  Mrs.  Crane? — why,  years  Avill  tell. 
But  you  seem  to  have  known  me — I  don't  re- 
member you." 

"Not  JBridgett  Greggs?" 

" Is  it  possible ?  I  left  you  a  middle-aged, 
rosy-faced  woman.  True,  I  recognize  you  now. 
There's  a  crown  for  you.  I  wish  I  had  more  to 
spare !" 

Bridgett  pushed  back  the  silver. 

"No — I  dare  not!  Take  money  from  you, 
Jasper  Losely !  Mistress  would  not  forgive 
me!" 

Losely,  not  unreluctantly,  restored  the  crown 
to  his  pocket ;  and,  with  a  snort,  rather  than  sigh, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


83 


of  relief,  stepped  into  open  daylight.  As  he  "They  have  not  gone  to  London.  What  could 
crossed  the  street  to  join  Rugge,  who  was  wait-  they  do  there  ?  Any  man  with  a  few  stage, 
ing  for  him  on  the  shady  side,  he  mechanically  juggling  tricks  can  get  on  in  country  villages, 
turned  to  look  back  at  the  house,. and,  at  the  but  would  be  lost  in  cities.  Perhaps,  as  it  seems 
open  window  of  an  upper  story,  he  beheld  again  he  has  got  a  dog — we  have  found  out  that  from 
those  shining  eyes  which  had  glared  down  'on  Jlrs.  Saunders — he  will  make  use  of  it  for  an 
him  from  the  stairs.     He  tried  to  smile,  and    itinerant  puppct-sliow." 

waved  his  hand  feebly.  The  eyes  seemed  to  re-  j  "  Punch  1"  said  ^Ir.  liuggc — "  not  a  doubt  of 
turn  the  smile;    and  as  he  walked  down  tlie    it." 

street,  arm  in  arm  with  the  ruffian  manager,  "  In  that  case,"  observed  Mrs.  Crane,  "  they 
slowly  recovering  his  springy  step,  and  in  the  ,  are  jirobably  not  far  off.  Let  us  print  handbills, 
gloss  of  the  new  garments  that  set  forth  his  still  ]  offering  a  reward  for  their  clew,  and  luring  the 
symmetrical  proportions,  the  eyes  followed  him  |  old  man  himself  by  an  assurance  that  the  in- 
watchfully — steadfastly — till  his  form  had  van-  quiry  is  made  in  order  that  he  may  learn  of 
ished,  and  the  dull  street  was  once  more  a  soli-  something  to  his  advantage." 
tude.  I      In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  handbills 

Then  Arabella  Crane  turned  from  the  window.  |  were  printed.  The  next  day  they  were  posted 
Putting  her  hand  to  her  heart,  "  How  it  beats  !"  i  up  on  the  walls,  not  only  of  that  village,  but  oa 
she  muttered ;  "  if  in  love  or  in  hate,  in  scorn  [  those  of  the  small  towns  and  hamlets  for  some 
or  in  pity,  beats  once  more  with  a  human  emo-  ,  miles  round.     The  handbills  ran  invitingly  thus: 

tion.     lie  will  come  again — whether  for  money  ]  '"If  William  Waife,  who  left  on  the  20th 

or  for  woman's  wit,  what  care  I — he  will  come.  '  ult.,  will  apply  at  the  Red  Lion  Inn  at ,  for 

— I  will  hold,  I  will  cling  to  him,  no  more  to  part  X.  X.,  he  will  learn  of  something  greatly  to  his 
— for  better,  for  worse,  as  it  should  have  been  '  advantage.  A  reward  of  £o  will  be  given  to 
once  at  the  altar.  And  the  child  ?"  she  paused  ;  any  one  who  will  furnish  information  where  the 
was  it  in  compunction  ?  '•  The  child  I"  she  con-  i  said  William  Waife,  and  the  little  girl  who  ac- 
tinued,  fiercely,  and  as  if  lashing  herself  into  ,  companies  him,  may  be  found.  The  said  Will- 
rage,  "The  child  of  that  treacherous,  hateful  iam  Waife  is  about  sixty  years  of  age,  of  middle 
mother — yes!  I  will  help  him  to  sell  her  back  stature,  strongly  built,  has  lost  one  eye,  and  is 
as  a  stage-show — help  him  in  all  that  docs  not  lame  of  one  leg.  The  little  girl,  called  Sophy, 
lift  her  to  a  state  from  which  she  may  look  down  is  twelve  years  old,  but  looks  younger ;  has  blue 
with  disdain  on  me.  Revenge  on  her,  on  that  i  eyes  and  light  brown  hair.  They  had  with  them 
cruel  house — revenge  is  sweet.  Oh !  that  it  ,  a  white  French  poodle  dog.  This  bill  is  printed 
were  revenge  alone  that  bids  me  cling  to  him  by  the  friends  of  the  missing  party."  The  next 
who  desen"es  revenge  the  most."  She  closed  day  passed — no  information ;  but  on  the  day 
her  burning  eyes,  and  sat  down  droopingly,  rock-    following,   a  young  gentleman  of  good  mien, 


ing  herself  to  and  fro  like  one  in  pain. 


dressed  in  black,  rode  into  the  town,  stopped  at 
the  Red  Lion  Inn,  and  asked  to  see  X.  X.  The 
two  men  were  out  on  their  researches — Mrs. 
Crane  staid  at  home  to  answer  inquiries. 

The  gentleman  was  requested  to  dismount, 
and  walk  in.  Mrs.  Crane  received  him  in  the 
inn  parlor,  which  swarmed  with  flies.  She  stood 
in  the  centre — vigilant,  gi-im  spider  of  the  place. 

"  I  ca-ca-call,"  said  the  gentleman,  stammer- 
ing fearfully,  "  in  con-con-sequence  of  a  b-b-bill 
• — I — ch-chanced  to  see  in  my  ri-ri-ri-ride  yes- 
terday— on  a  wa-wa-wall : — You — you,  I — sup- 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

In  life  it  is  diflBcult  to  say  who  do  you  the  most  mischief, 
enemies  with  the  worst  intentions,  or  friends  with  the 
best. 

The  conference  between  Mr.  Rugge  and  Mr. 
Losely  terminated  in  an  appointment  to  meet, 
the  next  day,  at  the  village  in  which  this  story 
opened.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Rugge  would  return 
to  his  "orphans,"  and  arrange  performances  in    sup- 

which,  for  some  days,  they  might  dispense  with  !  "  Am  X.  X.,"  put  in  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  im- 
a  Father's  part.  Losely, "on  his  side,  undertook  '  patient,  '-one  of  the  friends  of  Mr.  Waife,  by 
to  devote  the  intervening  hours  to  consultation  whom  the  handbill  has  been  circulated;  it  will 
with  a  solicitor,  to  whom  Jlr.  Rugge  recom-  indeed  be  a  great  relief  to  us  to  know  where  they 
mended  him,  as  to  the  prompt  obtaining  of  legal  are — the  little  girl  more  especially." 
powers  to  enforce  the  authority  he  asserted  him- !  Jlrs.  Crane  was  respectably  dressed — in  silk, 
self  to  possess.  He  would  also  persuade  Jlrs.  i  iron-gray;  she  had  crisped  her  flaky  tresses  into 
Crane  to  accompany  him  to  the  village,  and  aid  stiff,  hard  ringlets,  that  fell  like  long  screws 
in  the  requisite  investigations — entertaining  a  from  under  a  black  velvet  band.  Mrs.  Crane 
tacit  but  instinctive  belief  in  the  superiority  of  never  wore  a  caji — nor  could  you  fancy  her  in  a 
her  acuteness.  "  Set  a  female  to  catch  a  fe-  cap ;  but  the  velvet  band  looked  as  rigid  as  if 
male,"  quoth  Mr.  Rugge.  gummed  to  a  hoop  of  steel.     Her  manner  and 

On  the  day  and  in  the  place  thus  fixed,  the  tone  of  voice  were  those  of  an  educated  pei-son, 
three  hunters  opened  their  chase.  They  threw  not  unused  to  some  society  above  the  vulgar ; 
off  at  the  cobbler's  stall.  They  soon  caught  the  and  yet  the  visitor,  in  whom  the  reader  recog- 
same  scent  which  had  been  followed  by  the  law-  nizes  the  piscatorial  Oxonian,  with  wliom  Waife 
yer's  clerk.  They  arrived  at  Mrs.  Saunders's —  had  interchanged  philosojihy  on  the  marge  of 
there  the  two  men  would  have  been  at  fault  like  '  the  running  brooklet,  drew  back  as  she  advanced 
their  predecessor.  But  the  female  was  more  and  spoke  ;  and,  bent  on  an  errand  of  kindness, 
astute.  To  drop  the  metaphor,  Mrs.  Saunders  he  was  seized  with  a  vague  misgiving, 
could  not  stand  the  sharp  cross-examination  of  i  Mrs.  Craxe  (blandly).  "  I  fear  they  must  be 
one  of  her  own  sex.  "That  woman  deceives  badly  off.  I  hope  they  are  not  wanting  the 
us,"  said  Jlrs.  Crane,  on  leaving  the  house,    necessaries  of  life.     But  pray  be  seated,  Sir." 


84 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


She  looked  at  him  again,  and  with  more  respect 
in  her  address  than  she  had  before  thrown  into 
it,  added,  with  a  half  courtesy,  as  she  seated 
herself  by  his  side,  "  A  clergyman  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  I  presume.  Sir?" 

Oxonian  (stammer,  as  on  a  former  occasion, 
respectfully  omitted).  "With  this  defect,  ma'am ! 
But  to  the  point.  Some  days  ago  I  happened 
to  fall  in  with  an  elderly  person,  such  as  is  de- 
scribed, with  a  very  pretty  female  child,  and  a 
French  dog.  Tlie  man — gentleman,  perhaps,  I 
may  call  him,  judging  from  his  conversation — 
interested  me  much ;  so  did  the  little  girl.  And 
if  I  could  be  the  means  of  directing  real  friends 
anxious  to  serve  them — " 

Mrs.  Ckane.  "You  would  indeed  be  a  bene- 
factor.    And  where  are  they  now.  Sir?" 

Oxonian.  "  That  I  can  not  positively  tell  you. 
But  before  I  say  more,  will  you  kindly  satisfy 
my  curiosity  ?  He  is  perhaps  an  eccentric  per- 
son— this  Mr.  Waife  ? — a  little — "  The  Oxonian 
stopped,  and  touched  his  forehead.  ]\Irs.  Crane 
made  no  prompt  reply — she  was  musing.  Un- 
warily the  scholar  continued :  "  Because,  in  that 
case,  I  should  not  like  to  interfere.  So  many 
persons  are  shut  up,  where  there  is  no  insanity ; 
but  where  there  is  property — " 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  Quite  right.  Sir.  His  friends 
would  not  interfere  with  his  roving  ways,  his  lit- 
tle whims,  on  any  account.  Poor  man,  why 
should  they?  No  property  at  all  for  them  to 
covet,  I  assure  you.  But  it  is  a  long  story.  I 
had  the  care  of  that  dear  little  girl  from  her  in- 
fancy ;  sweet  child !" 

Oxonian.  "  So  she  seems." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  And  now  she  has  a  most  com- 
fortable home  provided  for  her;  and  a  young 
girl,  with  good  friends,  ought  not  to  be  tramp- 
ing about  the  country,  whatever  an  old  man 
may  do.     You  must  allow  that.  Sir  ?" 

Oxonian.  "  Well — yes,  I  allow  that ;  it  oc- 
curred to  me.  But  what  is  the  man  ? — the  gen- 
tleman ?" 

Mrs.  Crane.  "Very  '  eccentric,'  as  you  say, 
and  inconsiderate,  perhaps,  as  to  the  little  girl. 
We  will  not  call  it  insane.  Sir ;  we  can't  bear  to 
look  at  it  in  that  light.    But — are  you  married  ?" 

Oxonian  (blushing).  "No,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "But  you  have  a  sister,  per- 
haps ?" 

Oxonian.  "Yes;  I  have  one  sister." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  Would  you  like  your  sister  to 
be  running  about  the  country  in  that  way — car- 
ried oft'  from  her  home,  kindred,  and  friends?" 

Oxonian.  "Ah  !  1  understand.  The  poor  lit- 
tle girl  is  fond  of  the  old  man — a  relation,  grand- 
father perhaps  ?  and  he  has  taken  her  from  her 
home ;  and  though  not  actually  insane,  he  is 
still—" 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  An  unsafe  guide  for  a  female 
child,  delicately  reared,  /reared  her;  of  good 
prospects  too.  Oh,  Sir,  let  us  save  the  child! 
Look — "  She  drew  from  a  side-pocket  in  her 
stiff'  iron-gray  apron  a  folded  paper ;  she  placed 
it  in  the  Oxonian's  hand ;  he  glanced  over  and 
returned  it. 

"  I  see,  ma'am.  I  can  not  hesitate  after  this. 
It  is  a  good  many  miles  off'  where  I  met  the  per- 
sons whom  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  seek ;  and 
two  or  three  days  ago  my  father  received  a  let- 
ter from  a  very  worthy,  excellent  man,  with 
whom  he  is  ofte'n  brought  into  communication 


upon  benevolent  objects — a  Mr.  Ilartopp,  the 
Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  in  which,  among  otlier 
matters,  the  mayor  mentioned  briefly  that  the 
Literary  Institute  of  that  town  had  been  much 
delighted  by  the  performance  of  a  very  remark- 
able man  with  one  eye,  about  whom  there  seem- 
ed some  mystery,  with  a  little  girl  and  a  learn- 
ed dog ;  and  I  can't  help  thinking  that  the  man, 
the  girl,  and  the  dog  must  be  those  whom  I  saw 
and  you  seek." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "At  Gatesboro'? — is  that  far?" 

"  Some  way ;  but  you  can  get  a  cross  train 
from  this  village.  I  hope  that  the  old  man  will 
not  be  separated  from  the  little  girl ;  they  seem- 
ed very  fond  of  each  other." 

"  No  doubt  of  it — very  fond  ;  it  would  be  cru- 
el to  separate  them.  A  comfortable  home  for 
both.  I  don't  know,  Sir,  if  I  dare  oft'er  to  a 
gentleman  of  your  evident  rank  the  reward  — 
but  for  the  poor  of  your  parish." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  our  poor  want  for  nothing.  My 
father  is  rich.  But  if  you  would  oblige  me  by  a 
line  after  you  have  found  these  interesting  jjcr- 
Rons — I  am  going  to  a  distant  part  of  the  coun- 
try to-morrow  —  to  Montford  Court,  in   

shire." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  To  Lord  Montfort,  the  head 
of  the  noble  family  of  Vipont  ?" 

Oxonian.  "  Yes.  You  know  any  of  the  fam- 
ily, ma'am?  If  you  could  refer  me  to  one  of 
them,  I  should  feel  more  satisfied  as  to — " 

Mrs.  Crane  (hastily).  "Indeed,  Sir,  every 
one  must  know  that  great  family  by  name  and 
repute.  I  know  no  more.  So  you  are  going  to 
Lord  Montford's !  The  Marchioness,  they  say, 
is  very  beautiful !" 

Oxonian.  "  And  good  as  beautiful.  I  have 
the  honor  to  be  comiected  both  with  her  and 
Lord  Montfort ;  they  are  cousins,  and  my  grand- 
father was  a  Vipont.  I  should  have  told  you 
my  name — Morley  ;  George  Vipont  Morley." 

]Mrs.  Crane  made  a  profound  courtesy,  and, 
with  an  unmistakable  smile  of  satisfaction,  said, 
as  if  half  in  sohloquy,  "  So  it  is  to  one  of  that 
noble  family — to  a  Vipont — that  the  dear  child 
will  owe  her  restoration  to  my  embrace !  Bless 
you,  Sir!" 

"  I  hope  I  have  done  right,"  said  George  Vi- 
pont Morley,  as  he  mounted  his  horse.  "  I 
must  have  done  right,  surely !"  he  said,  again, 
when  he  was  on  the  high-road.  "  I  fear  I  have 
not  done  right,"  he  said,  a  third  time,  as  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Crane  began  to  haunt  him;  and 
when,  at  sunset,  he  reached  his  home,  tired  out, 
horse  and  man,  with  an  unusually  long  ride, 
and  the  green  water-bank  on  which  he  had 
overheard  poor  Waife's  simple  grace  and  joyous 
babble  came  in  sight,  "  After  all,"  he  said,  dole- 
fully, "  it  was  no  business  of  mine.  I  meant 
well,  but — "  His  little  sister  ran  to  the  gate  to 
greet  him.  "  Yes,  I  did  quite  right.  How  should 
I  like  my  sister  to  be  roving  the  country,  and 
acting  at  Literary  Institutes  with  a  poodle  dog  ? 
Quite  right.     Kiss  me,  Jane !" 


CHAPTER  XVHL 

Let  a  king  and  a  beggar  converse  freely  together,  and  it 
is  the  beggar's  fault  if  he  does  not  say  something  which 
makes  the  king  lift  his  hat  to  him. 

The  scene  shifts  back  to  Gatesboro',  the  fore- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


noon  of  the  day  succeeding  the  memorable  Ex- 
hibition at  the'  Institute  of  that  learned  town. 
Mr.  Hartopp  was  in  the  little  parlor  behind  his 
countrv-house,  his  hours  of  business  much 
broken  into  by  those  intruders  who  deem  no 
time  unseasonable  for  the  indulgence  of  curios- 
itv,  the  interchancje  of  thought,  or  the  interests 
of  general  humanity  and  of  national  enlighten- 
ment. The  excitement  produced  on  the  pre- 
vious evening  by  Mr.  Chapman,  Sophy,  and  Sir 
Isaac,  was  preatly  on  the  increase.  Persons  who 
had  seen  them  naturally  called  on  the  Mayor  to 
talk  over  the  Exhibition.  Persons  who  had  not 
seen  them  stilL  more  naturally  dropped  in  just 
to  learn  what  was  really  llr.  Mayor's  private 
opinion.  The  little  parlor  was  thronged  by  a 
regular  levee.  There  was  the  proprietor  of  a 
dismal  building,  still  called  "The  Theatre," 
which  was  seldom  let  except  at  election-time, 
when  it  was  hired  by  the  popular  candidate  for 
the  delivery  of  those  harangues  upon  liberty  and 
conscience",  tyranny  and  oppression,  which  fur- 
nish the  staple  of  declamation  equally  to  the 
dramatist  and  the  orator.  Tliere  was  also  the 
landlord  of  the  Royal  Hotel,  who  had  latch- 
built  to  his  house  "  The  City  Concert-room"  — 
a  superb  apartment,  but  a  losing  speculation. 
There,  too,  were  three  highly  respectable  per- 
sons, of  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  who  came  to 
suggest  doubts  whether  an  entertainment  of  so 
frivolous  a  nature  was  not  injurious  to  the  mo- 
ralitv  of  Gatesboro'.  Besides  these  notables, 
there  were  loungers  and  gossips,  with  no  partic- 
ular object  except  that  of  ascertaining  who  Mr. 
Chapman  was  by  birth  and  parentage,  and  sug- 
gesting the  expediency  of  a  deputation  ostensi- 
bly for  the  purpose  of  asking  him  to  repeat  his 
pe'rformance,  but  charged  with  private  instruc- 
tions to  cross-examine  him  as  to  his  pedigree. 
The  gentle  Mayor  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  a 
mighty  ledger-book,  pen  in  hand.  The  attitude 
was  a  rebuke  on  intruders,  and  in  ordinary  times 
would  have  been  so  considered.  But  mildness, 
however  majestic,  is  not  always  effective  in  pe- 
riods of  civic  commotion.  The  room  was  ani- 
mated by  hubbub.  You  caught  broken  sen- 
tences here  and  there  crossing  each  other,  like 
the  sounds  that  had  been  frozen  in  the  air,  and 
set  free  by  a  thaw,  according  to  the  veracious 
narrative  of  Baron  Munchausen. 

Plat-hocse  Peopeietoe.  "  The  theatre  is 
the—" 

Seeious  Gen-tlemak.  "Plausible  snare  by 
which  a  population,  at  present  grave  and  well- 
disposed,  is  decoyed  into  becoming — " 

Excited  Admieee.  "A  French  poodle,  Sir, 
that  plays  at  dominoes  like  a — " 

Cbedclocs  Cokjectueer.  "Benevolent phil- 
anthropist, condescending  to  act  for  the  benefit 
of  some  distressed  brother  who  is — " 

Pkofrietoe  of  City  Coxcekt-Room.  "One 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  long  by  forty,  Mr. 
Mayor  !  Talk  of  that  damp  theatre,  Sir  I — you 
might  as  well  talk  of  the — " 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and,  pushing 
aside  a  clerk  who  designed  to  announce  him,  in 
burst  Mr.  Chapman  himself. 

He  had  evidently  expected  to  find  the  Mayor 
alone,  for  at  the  sight  of  that  throng  he  check- 
ed himself,  and  stood  mute  at  the  threshold. 
The  levee,  for  a  moment,  was  no  less  surprised, 
and  no  less  mute.    But  the  good  folks  soon  re- 


covered themselves.  To  many  it  was  a  pleas- 
ure to  accost  and  congratulate  the  man  who,  the 
night  before,  had  occasioned  to  them  emotions 
so  agreeable.  Cordial  smiles  broke  out — friend- 
ly hands  were  thrust  forth.  Brief  but  hearty 
compliments,  mingled  with  entreaties  to  renew 
the  performance  to  a  larger  audience,  were 
showered  round.  The  Comedian  stood,  hat  in 
hand,  mechanically  passing  his  sleeve  over  its 
nap,  muttering,  half  inaudibly,  "  You  see  before 
you  a  man"  —  and  turning  his  single  eye  from 
one  face  to  the  other,  as  if  struggling  to  guess 
wliat  was  meant,  or  where  he  was.  The  Mayor 
rose  and  came  fonvard.  "  My  dear  friends," 
said  he,  mildly,  "  Mr.  Chapman  calls  by  appoint- 
ment. Perhaps  he  may  have  something  to  say 
to  me  confidentially." 

The  three  serious  gentlemen,  who  had  hither- 
to remained  aloof,  eying  Mr.  Chapman  much 
as  three  inquisitors  might  have  eyed  a  Jew, 
shook  three  solemn  heads,  and  set  the  example 
of  retreat.  The  last  to  linger  were  the  rival 
proprietors  of  the  theatre  and  the  city  concert- 
room.  Each  whispered  the  stranger — one  the 
left  ear,  one  the  right.  Each  thrust  into  his 
hand  a  printed  paper.  As  the  door  closed  on 
them  the  Comedian  let  fall  the  papers ;  his  arm 
drooped  to  his  side  ;  his  whole  frame  seemed  to 
collapse.  Hartopp  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  gently  to  his  own  arm-chair  beside  the 
table.  The  Comedian  dropped  on  the  chair, 
still  without  speaking. 

Me.  H.4.ETOPP.  "  SVhat  is  the  matter  ?  "What 
has  happened?" 

Waife.  "  She  is  very  ill — in  a  bad  way ;  the 
doctor  says  so — Dr.  Gill." 

Me.  Hartopp  (feelingly).  "Your  little  girl  in 
a  bad  way  I  Oh,  no.  Doctors  always  exagger- 
ate, in  order  to  get  more  credit  for  the  cure. 
Not  that  I  would  disparage  Dr.  Gill  —  fellow- 
townsman  —  first-rate  man  ;  still,  'tis  the  way 
with  doctors  to  talk  cheerfully  if  one  is  in  dan- 
ger, and  to  look  solemn  if  there  is  nothing  to 
fear." 

Waife.  "  Do  you  think  so — you  have  chil- 
dren of  vour  own,  Sir? — of  her  age,  too? — Eh! 
eh !" 

Mr.  Haetopp.  "Yes  ;  I  know  all  about  chil- 
dren— better,  I  think,  than  ;Mrs.  H.  does.  What 
is  the  complaint?" 

Waife.  "  The  doctor  says  it  is  low  fever." 

ilR.  Hartopp.  "  Caused  by  nervous  excite- 
ment, perhaps." 

Waife  (looking  up).  "Yes — that's  what  he 
savs — nervous  excitement." 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "Clever,  sensitive  children, 
subjected  precociously  to  emulation  and  emo- 
tion, are  always  liable  to  such  maladies.  3Iy 
third  girl,  Anna  Maria,  fell  into  a  low  fever, 
caused  by  nervous  excitement  in  trjing  for 
school  prizes." 

Waife.  "Did  she  die  of  it.  Sir?" 

Me.  Haetopp  (shuddering).  "Die  —  Xo  !  I 
removed  her  from  school — set  her  to  take  care 
of  the  poultrj- — forbade  all  French  exercises, 
made  her  take  English  exercise  instead — and 
ride  on  a  donkey.  She's  quite  another  thing 
now — cheeks  as  red  as  an  apple,  and  as  firm  as 
a  cricket-ball." 

Waife.  "I  will  keep  poultry;  I  will  buy  a 
donkey.  Oh,  Sir!  you  don't  think  she  will  go 
to  heaven  yet,  and  leave  me  here  ?" 


86 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Me.  HLvrtopp.  ' '  Not  if  vou  give  her  rest  and  j  forlorn  creature,  who  could  give  no  reason  why 
quiet.     But  no  excitement — no  exhibitions."        he  should  not  be  rather  in  the  Gatesboro'  Parish 

—  '  •       '■  1    .  .1.1-1 -\     Stocks  than  in  its  chief  magistrate's  easv-chair. 

Yet  were  the  Major's  sympathetic  liking  and 
respectful  admiration  whollv  unaccountable  ? 
Euns  there  not  between  one  warm  human  heart 
and  another  the  electric  chain  of  a  secret  un- 
derstanding? In  that  maimed  outcast,  so  stub- 
bomlv  hard  to  himself — so  tremulouslv  sensitive 


Walfe  (emptring  his  pockets  on  the  table). 
'•Will  vou  kindlv  count  that  monev,  Sir? 
Don't  vou  think  that  would  be  enough  to  find 
her  some  prettv  lodging  hereabouts  till  she  gets 
quite  strong  again?  With  green  fields — she's 
fond  of  green  fields,  and  a  farm-vard  with 
ponltrv — though  we  were  lodging  a  few  davs  ago 
with  a  good  woman  who  kept  hens,  and  Sophv  i  for  his  sick  child— was  there  not  the  majestv  to 
did  not  seem  to  take  to  them  much.     A  canary  '  which  they  who  have  learned  that  Nature  has 


bird  is  more  of  a  companion,  and — ' 

Haetopp  (interrupting).  "  Ay — ay — and  you  I 
what  would  yon  do  ?" 

Waife.  '-Why,  I  and  the  dog  would  go  away 
for  a  little  while  about  the  country." 

Haetopp.  ' '  Exh  ibiting  ?" 

Waite.  "That  money  wiU  not  last  forever, 
and  what  can  we  do — I  and  the  dog — in  order 
to  get  more  for  her  ?" 

Haetopp  (pressing  his  hand  warmly).  "Ton 
are  a  good  man,  Sir.  I  am  sure  of  it :  you  can 
not  have  done  things  which  you  should  be  afraid 
to  tell  me.  Make  me  your  confidant,  and  I  may 
then  find  some  employment  fit  for  yon,   and 


her  nobles  reverently  bow  the  head  I  A  man, 
true  to  man's  grave  religion,  can  no  more  de- 
spise a  life  wrecked  in  all  else,  while  a  hallow- 
ing afi"ection  stands  out  subhme  through  the 
rents  and  chinks  of  fortune,  than  he  can  profane 
with  rude  mockery  a  temple  in  ruins — if  still 
left  there  the  altar. 


CH.VPTEK  XIX. 
Xerr  well  so  far  as  it  goes. 


_ Me.  Haetopp.  "  I  can  not  presume  to  ques- 

you  need  not  separate  yoorself  from  jonr  little  I  tion  you  further,  ilr.  Chapman.     But  to  one  of 
girl."  "  your*  knowledge  of  the  world,  I  need  not  say 

Waife.  "  Separate  from  her .'  I  should  only    that  your  silence  deprives  me  of  the  power  to 
leave  her  for  a  few  davs  at  a  time  till  she  gets  .  assist  yourself.     We'll  talk  no  more  of  that." 
well.     This  monev  wi'll  keep  her— how  long  ?  i      Waife.  "  Thank  you  gratefully,  Mr.  Mayor." 
Two  months— three  ? — how  long? — the  Doctor        Me.  Haetopp.  "  Bat  for  the  little  girl,  make 
would  not  charae  much."  I  your  mind  easy — at  least  for  the  present.     I 

Haetopp.  '"You  will  not  confide  in  me,  then  ?  ;  "will  place  her  at  my  farm  cottage.  My  bailiff's 
At  your  age — have  vou  no  friends — no  one  to  ,  wife,  a  kind  woman,  wiU  take  care  of  her,  while 
speak  a  gw>d  word  for  you?"  |  you  pursue  your  calling  elsewhere.     As  for  this 


Does  she  want  a  good  word  spoken  for  her  ?  \  bit  of  a  doctor  myself.  Every  man  blessed  with 
Heaven  has  written  it  in  her  face."  \  a  large  family,  in  whose  house  there  is  always 

Hartopp  persisted  no  more ;  the  excellent  some  interesting  case  of  smaU-pox,  measles, 
man  was  sincerely  grieved  at  his  visitor's  oh-  hooping-cough,  scarlarina,  etc.,  has  a  good  pri- 
stinate  avoidance  of  the  true  question  at  issue;  vate  practice  of  his  own.  I'm  not  brilliant  in 
for  the  Mavor  could  have  found  employment  for  ;  book-learning,  3Ir.  Chapman,  but  as  to  chil- 
a  man  of  Waife's  evident  education  and  talent.  ',  dren's  complaints  in  a  practical  way"  (added 
But  such  employment  would  entail  responsibil-  :  Hartopp.  with  a  glow  of  pride),  "Mrs.  H.  says 
itics  and  trtist.  '  How  recommend  to  it  a  man  she'd  rather  trust  the  little  ones  to  me  than  Dr. 
of  vshose  life  and  circumstances  nothing  could  GiU.  ITl  see  your  child,  and  set  her  up,  I'll  be 
be  known — a  man  without  a  character? — And  bound.  But  now  I  think  of  it,"'  continued  Har- 
Waife  interested  him  deeply.  We  have  all  topp,  softening  more  and  more,  "  if  exhibit  you 
felt  that  there  are  some  persons  toward  whom  must,  why  not  stay  at  Gatesboro'  for  a  time  ? 
we  are  attracted  bv  a  peculiar  sympathy  not  to  More  may  be  made  in  this  to^-n  than  else- 
be  explained — a  something  in  the  manner,  the    where." 

cut  of  the  face,  the  tone  of  the  voice.  If  there  ;  "Xo,  no;  I  could  not  have  the  heart  to  act 
are  fiftv  applicants  for  a  benefit  in  otir  gift,  one  ,  here  again  without  her.  I  feel  at  present  as  if 
of  the  fiftv  -n-ins  his  way  to  oar  preference  at  ^  I  can  never  again  act  at  all  I  Something  else 
first  sight,'though  with  no  better  right  to  it  than  ;  will  turn  up.  Providence  is  so  kind  to  me,  >Ir. 
his  fellows.     We  can  no  more  say  why  we  like    Mayor." 

the  man  than  we  can  say  why  we  faU  in  love  \      Waife  turned  to  the  door — "You  wiU  come 
with  a  woman  in  whom  no  one  else  would  dis-    soon  ?"  he  said,  anxiously, 
cover  a  charm.     "  There  is,"  says  a  Latin  love-  \      The  ^Mayor,  who  had  been  locking  up  his 
poet,  "no  why  or  wherefore  in  liking."     Har-   ledgers  and  papers,  replied,  "I  will  but  stay  to 
topp,  therefore,  had  taken,  from  the  first  mo- '  give  some  orders ;  in  a  quarter  of  ar  hour  I  shall 
ment,  to  Waife — the  staid,  respectable,  thriving   be  at  your  hotel" 
man,  all  mtiffled  up  from  head  to  foot  in  the 
whitest  lawn  of  reputation — to  the  wandering, 
shifty,  tricksome  scatterling,  who  had  not  seem- 

inglv  secured,  through  the  course  of  a  life  bor-  CHAPTEPw  XX. 

denng  upon  age,  a  single  certificate  for  good  ^^^  ^^  ^^  ^, 

conduct.    On  his  hearthstone,  beside  his  ledger- 
book,  stood  the  Mavor,  looking  with  a  respect-        Sopht  was  lying  on  a  sola 
fol  admiration  that  puzzled  himself  upon  the   window  in  her  own  room,  and  on  her  lap  was 


tirav.-n  near  tue 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


87 


the  doll  Lionel  had  given  to  her.  Carried  with 
her  in  her  wanderings,  she  had  never  played 
■n-ith  it ;  never  altered  a  ribbon  in  its  yellow 
tresses ;  but  at  least  once  a  day  she  had  taken 
it  forth  and  looked  at  it  in  secret.  And  all  that 
morning,  left  much  to  herself,  it  had  been  her 
companion.  She  was  smoothing  down  its  frock, 
which  she  fancied  had  got  ruffled — smoothing  it 
down  with  a  sort  of  fearful  tenderness,  the  doll 
all  the  while  staring  her  full  in  the  face  with  its 
blue  bead  eyes.  Waife,  seated  near  her,  was 
trying  to  talk  gayly ;  to  invent  tairy  tales  blithe 
with  sport  and  fancy,  but  his  invention  tlagged, 
and  the  fairies  prosed  awfully.  He  had  placed 
the  dominoes  before  Sir  Isaac,  but  Sophy  had 
scarcely  looked  at  them,  from  the  languid,  hea- 
vy eyes  on  which  the  doll  so  stupidly  fixed  its 
own.  8ir  Isaac  himself  seemed  spiritless ;  he 
was  aware  that  something  was  wrong.  Xow  and 
then  he  got  up  restlessly,  sniffed  the  dominoes, 
and  placed  a  paw  gently,  very  gently,  on  Sophy's 
knee.  Not  being  encouraged,  he  lay  down  again 
uneasily,  often  shifting  his  position  as  if  the  floor 
was  grown  too  hard  for  him.  Thus  the  Mayor 
found  the  three.  He  approached  Sophy  with 
the  step  of  a  man  accustomed  to  sick  rooms  and 
ailing  children — step  light  as  if  shod  with  felt 
— put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  kissed  her  fore- 
head, and  then  took  the  doll.  Sophy  started, 
and  took  it  back  from  him  quickly,  but  without 
a  word ;  then  she  hid  it  behind  her  pillow.  The 
Mayor  smiled — "My  dear  child,  do  you  think 
I  should  hurt  your  doll  ?" 

Sopliy  colored,  and  said  murmuringly,  "No, 
Sir,  not  hurt  it,  but — "  she  stopped  short. 

'  •  I  have  been  talking  to  your  grandpapa  about 
you,  my  dear,  and  we  both  wish  to  give  you  a 
little  holiday.  Dolls  are  well  enough  for  the 
winter,  but  green  fields  and  daisy-chains  for  the 
summer." 

Sophy  glanced  from  the  Mayor  to  her  grand- 
father, and  back  again  to  the  Mayor,  shook  her 
curls  from  her  eyes  and  looked  seriously  inquis- 
itive. 

The  Mayor,  observing  her  quietly,  stole  her 
hand  into  his  own,  feeling  the  pulse  as  if  mere- 
ly caressing  the  tender  wrist.  Then  he  began 
to  descrihe  his  bailifl's  cottage,  with  woodbine 
round  the  porch,  the  farm-yard,  the  bee-hives, 
the  pretty  duck-pond  with  an  osier  island,  and 
the  great  China  gander  who  had  a  pompous 
strut,  which  made  him  the  drollest  creature  pos- 
sible. And  Sophy  should  go  there  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  be  as  happy  as  one  of  the  bees,  but  not 
so  busy. 

Sophy  listened  very  earnestly,  very  gravely, 
and  then  sliding  her  hand  from  the  flavor, 
caught  hold  of  her  grandfather's  arm  firmly, 
and  said,  "  And  you,  Grandy — will  you  like  it  ? 
won't  it  be  didl  for  you,  Grandy,  dear?" 

"Why,  my  darling,"  said  Waife,  "I  and  Sir 
Isaac  will  go  and  take  a  stroll  about  the  coun- 
try for  a  few  weeks,  and — " 

SoPJiY  (passionately).  "  I  thought  so ;  I  thought 
he  meant  tliat.  I  tried  not  to  believe  it ;  go 
away — you  ?  and  who's  to  take  care  of  you  ? 
who'll  understand  you  ?  I  want  care !  I — I ! 
No,  no  ,•  it  is  you — you  who  want  care.  I  shall 
be  well  to-morrow — quite  well,  don't  fear.  He 
shall  not  be  sent  away  from  me ;  he  shall  not. 
Sir.  Oh,  grandfather,  grandfather,  how  could 
you  ?''    She  flung  herself  on  his  breast,  clinging  I 


there,  clinging  as  if  infancy  and  age  were  but 
parts  of  the  same  whole. 

"But,"  said  the  Mayor,  "it  is  not  as  if  you 
were  going  to  school,  my  dear ;  you  arc  going 
for  a  holiday.  And  your  grandfather  must 
leave  you — must  travel  about — 'tis  his  calling. 
If  you  fell  ill  and  were  with  him,  think  how 
much  you  would  be  in  his  way.  Do  you  know," 
he  added,  smiling,  "I  shall' begin  to  fear  that 
you  are  selfish." 

"  Seltish  !"  exclaimed  Waife,  angi-ily. 

"  Selfish  1"  echoed  Sophy,  with  a  melancholy 
scorn  that  came  from  a  sentiment  so  deep  that 
mortal  eye  could  scarce  fatliom  it.  "  Oh,  no, 
Sir !  can  you  say  it  is  for  his  good,  not  for,  what 
he  supposes,  mine,  that  you  want  us  to  part  ? 
The  pretty  cottage — and  all  for  me — and  what 
for  him?  —  tramp,  tramp  along  the  hot,  dusty 
roads.  Do  you  see  that  he  is  lame  ?  Oh,  Sir, 
I  know  him  —  you  don't.  Selfish!  he  would 
have  no  merry  ways  that  make  you  laugh  with- 
out me;  would  you,  Grandy,  dear?  Go  away, 
you  are  a  naughty  man — go,  or  I  shall  hate  you 
as  much  as  that  dreadful  Mr.  Rugge." 

"Rugge — who  is  he?"  said  the  Mayor,«curi- 
ously,  catching  at  any  clew. 

"Hush,  my  darling! — hush!"  said  Waife, 
fondling  her  on  his  breast.  "Hush!  What  is 
to  be  done.  Sir?" 

Hartopp  made  a  sly  sign  to  him  to  say  no 
more  before  Sophy,  and  then  replied,  address- 
ing himself  to  her — 

"What  is  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  shall  be  done, 
my  dear  child,  that  you  dislike.  I  don't  wish 
to  part  you  two.  Don't  hate  me  —  lie  down 
again — that's  a  dear.  There,  I  have  smoothed 
your  pillow  for  you  ■  oh,  here's  your  pretty  doll 
again." 

Sophy  snatched  at  the  doll  petulantly,  and 
made  what  the  French  call  a  7/ioue  at  the  good 
man,  as  she  suff'ered  her  grandfather  to  replace 
her  on  the  sofa. 

"  She  has  a  strong  temper  of  her  own,"  mut- 
tered the  Mayor  •  "  so  has  Anna  Maria  a  strong 
temper!" 

Now,  if  I  were  any^vay  master  of  my  own  pen, 
and  could  write  as  I  pleased,  without  being  hur- 
ried along,  helter-skelter,  by  the  tyrannical  ex- 
actions of  that  "young  Rapid"  in  buskins  and 
chiton,  called  "The  Historic  IMuse,"  I  would 
break  ofi"  this  chapter,  open  my  window,  rest 
my  eyes  on  the  green  lawn  without,  and  indulge 
in  a  rhapsodical  digression  upon  that  beautifier 
of  the  moral  life,  which  is  called  "Good  Tem- 
per." Ha! — the  Historic  Muse  is  dozing.  By 
her  leave  I — Softly. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Being  an  Essay  on  Temper  in  general,  and  a  hazardous 
experiment  on  the  reader's  in  particular. 

There,  the  window  is  open !  how  instinctive- 
ly the  eye  rests  upon  the  green  I  liow  the  calm 
color  lures  and  soothes  it !  But  is  there  to  the 
green  only  a  single  hue  ?  See  how  infinite  the 
variety  of  its  tints !  What  sombre  gravity  in 
yon  cedar,  yon  motionless  pine-tree !  What 
lively  but  unvarying  laugli  in  yon  glossy  laurels! 
Do  those  tints  charm  us  like  the  play  in  the 
young  leaves  of  the  hlac — lighter  here,  darker 


88 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


there,  as  the  breeze  (and  so  slight  the  breeze  !) 
stirs  them  into  checker — into  rijiple  ?  Oh  sweet 
green,  to  the  world  what  sweet  temper  is  to 
man's  life!  Who  would  reduce  into  one  dye 
all  thy  lovely  varieties?  who  exclude  the  dark 
steadfast  verdure  that  lives  on  through  the  win- 
ter day ;  or  the  mutinous  caprice  of  the  gentler, 
vounger  tint  that  came  fresh  through  the  tears 
of  Ajn-il,  and  will  shadow  with  sportive  tremor 
the  blooms  of  luxuriant  June? 

Happy  the  man  on  whose  marriage-hearth 
temper  smiles  kind  from  the  eyes  of  woman ! 
"No  deity  present,"  saith  the  heathen  proverb, 
"where  absent  — Pnidence" — no  joy  long  a 
guest  where  Peace  is  not  a  dweller.  Peace,  so 
like  Faith,  that  they  may  be  taken  for  each 
otlier,  and  poets  have  clad  them  with  the  same 
vail.  But  in  cliildhood,  in  early  youth,  expect 
not  the  changeless  green  of  the  cedar.  Wouldst 
thou  distinguish  fine  temper  from  spiritless  dull- 
ness, from  cold  simulation — ask  less  what  the 
temper,  than  what  the  disposition. 

Is  the  nature  sweet  and  trustful,  is  it  free  from 
the  morbid  self-love  which  calls  itself  "sensitive 
feeli»g,"  and  frets  at  imaginary  offenses  ;  is  the 
tendency  to  be  grateful  for  kindness — yet  take 
kindness  meekly,  and  accept  as  a  benefit  what 
the  vain  call  a  due?  From  dispositions  thus 
blessed,  sweet  temper  will  come  forth  to  glad- 
den tliee,  spontaneous  and  free.  Quick  witii 
some,  witli  some  slow,  word  and  look  emerge 
out  of  the  lieart.  Be  thy  fi.rst  question,  "  Is  tlie 
heart  itself  generous  and  tender?"  If  it  be  so, 
self-control  comes  with  deepening  afl:ection. 
Call  not  that  a  good  heart  which,  Imstening  to 
sting  if  a  fibre  be  ruffled,  cries,  "  I  am  no  hypo- 
crite." Accept  that  excuse,  and  revenge  be- 
comes virtue.  But  where  the  heart,  if  it  give 
the  offense,  pines  till  it  win  back  the  pardon  ;  if 
offended  itself,  bounds  forth  to  forgive,  ever 
longing  to  sootlie,  ever  grieved  if  it  wound  ;  tlien 
be  sure  that  its  nobleness  will  need  but  few 
trials  of  pain  in  each  outbreak,  to  refine  and 
chastise  its  expression.  Fear  not  then  ;  be  but 
noble  thyself,  thou  art  safe ! 

Yet  what  in  childhood  is  often  called,  rebuk- 
ingly,  "  temper,"  is  but  the  cordial  and  puissant 
vitality  which  contains  all  the  elements  that 
make  temj^r  the  sweetest  at  last.  Who  among 
us,  how  wise  soever,  can  construe  a  child's 
heart?  who  conjecture  all  the  springs  that  se- 
cretly vibrate  within,  to  a  touch  on  the  surface 
of  feeling  ?  Eacli  child,  but  especially  the  girl- 
child,  would  task  the  whole  lore  of  a  sage,  deep 
as  Shakspeare,  to  distinguish  those  subtle  emo- 
tions which  we  grown  folks  have  outlived. 

"  She  has  a  strong  temper,"  said  the  JNtayor, 
when  Sophy  snatched  the  doll  from  his  hand  a 
second  time,  and  pouted  at  him,  spoiled  child, 
looking  so  divinely  cross,  so  petulantly  pretty. 
And  how  on  earth  could  the  Mayor  know  what 
associations  with  that  stupid  doll  made  her 
think  it  profaned  by  the  touch  of  a  stranger? 
Was  it  to  her  eyes  as  to  his — mere  wax-work 
and  frippery,  or  a  symbol  of  holy  remembrances, 
of  gleams  into  a  fairer  world,  of  "  devotion  to 
something  afar  from  the  sphere  of  her  sorrow?" 
Was  not  the  evidence  of  "  strong  temper"  the 
very  sign  of  aff'ectionate  depth  of  heart  ?  Poor 
little  Sophy.  Hide  it  again — safe  out  of  sight — 
close,  inscrutable,  unguessed,  as  childhood's 
first  treasures  of  sentiment  ever  are ! 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

The  object  of  Civilization  beinjj  always  to  settle  people 
one  way  or  tlie  other.  Hie  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  entertains 
a  statesmanliice  ambition  to  settle  Gentleman  Waife: 
no  doubt  a  wise  conception,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
genius  of  the  Nation. — Every  Session  of  Parliament, 
England  is  employed  in  settling  folks,  whether  at  home 
or  at  the  Antipodes,  who  ignorantly  object  to  be  settled 
in  her  way ;  in  short,  "  I'll  settle  them,"  has  become  a 
vulgar  idiom,  tantamount  to  a  threat  of  uttermost  ex- 
termination or  smash. — Therefore  the  Jlayor  of  Gates- 
boro', harboring  that  benignant  idea  with  reference  to 
"Gentleman  A\'aife,"  all  kindly  readers  will  exclaim, 
"Dii,  Meliora!     What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

The  doll  once  more  safe  behind  the  pillow, 
Sophy's  face  gradually  softened ;  she  bent  for- 
ward, touched  the  Mayor's  hand  timidly,  and 
looked  at  him  with  pleading,  penitent  eyes,  still 
wet  with  tears — eyes  that  said,  though  the  lips 
were  silent — "  I'll  not  hate  you.  I  was  ungrate- 
ful and  peevish  ;  may  I  beg  pardon?" 

"I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,"  cried  the 
Mayor,  interpreting  the  look  aright.  ' '  And  now 
try  and  compose  yourself  and  sleep  while  I  talk 
with  your  grandpapa  below." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  that  I  can  leave 
her,"  said  Waife,  when  the  two  men  hud  ad- 
journed to  the  sitting-room. 

"I  am  sure,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  seriously,  "that 
it  is  the  best  thing  for  her ;  her  pulse  has  much 
nervous  excitability ;  she  wants  a  complete  rest ; 
she  ought  not  to  move  about  with  you  on  any 
account.  But  come — though  I  must  not  know, 
it  seems,  who  and  what  you  arc,  Mr.  Chapman 
— I  don't  tliiuk  you  will  run  oft"  with  my  cows, 
and  if  you  like  to  stay  at  the  Bailitt"'s  Cottage 
for  a  week  or  two  with  your  grandchild,  you 
shall  be  left  in  peace,  and  asked  no  questions. 
I  will  own  to  you  a  weakness  of  mine — I  value 
myself  on  being  seldom  or  never  taken  in.  I 
don't  think  I  could  forgive  the  man  who  did 
take  me  in.  But  taken  in  I  certainly  shall  be, 
if,  despite  all  your  mystery,  you  are  not  as  hon- 
est a  fellow  as  ever  stood  upon  shoe-leather! 
So  come  to  the  cottage." 

Waife  was  very  much  aff'ectcd  by  this  confid- 
ing kindness ;  but  he  shook  his  head  despond- 
ently, and  that  same  abject,  almost  cringing  hu- 
mility of  mien  and  manner  which  had  pained, 
at  times,  Lionel  and  Vance,  crept  over  the  whole 
man,  so  that  he  seemed  to  cower  and  shrink  as 
a  Pariah  before  a  Brahman.  "No,  Sir;  thank 
you  most  humbly.  No,  Sir — that  must  not  be. 
I  must  work  for  my  daily  bread,  if  what  a  poor 
vagabond  like  me  may  do  can  be  called  work. 
I  have  made  it  a  rule  for  years  not  to  force  my- 
self to  the  hearth  and  home  of  any  kind  man, 
who,  not  knowing  my  past,  has  a  right  to  sus- 
pect me.  Where  I  lodge,  I  pay  as  a  lodger ;  or 
whatever  favor  shown  me  spares  my  purse,  I  try 
to  return  in  some  useful,  humble  way.  Why, 
Sir,  how  could  I  make  free  and  easy  with  an- 
other man's  board  and  roof-tree  for  days  or 
weeks  together,  when  I  would  not  even  come  to 
your  hearthstone  for  a  cup  of  tea  ?"  The  Mayor 
remembered,  and  was  startled.  Waife  hurried 
on.  "  But  for  my  poor  child  I  have  no  such 
scruples — no. shame,  no  false  pride.  I  take  what 
you  off'er  her  gratefully — gratefully.  Ah,  Sir, 
she  is  not  in  her  right  place  with  me ;  but 
there's  no  kicking  against  the  pricks.  Where 
was  I?  Oh!  well,  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do, 
Sir.  I  will  take  her  to  the  Cottage  in  a  day  or 
two — as  soon  as  she  is  ■well  enough  to  go — and 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


89 


spend  the  dar  Ti^ith  her,  and  deceive  her,  Sir! 
yes,  deceive,  cheat  her,  Sir!  I  am  a  cheat — a 
plaver — and  she'll  think  I'm  goinci  to  stay  with 
her;  and  at  night,  when  she's  asleep,  I'll  creep 
off,  I  and  the  other  dog.  But  I'll  leave  a  letter 
for  her — it  will  soothe  her,  and  she'll  be  patient 
and  wait.  I  will  come  back  again  to  see  her  in  a 
week,  and  once  every  week  till  she's  well  again." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?" 

"I  don't  know" — but,  said  the  actor,  forcing 
a  laugh — "  I'm  not  a  man  likely  to  starve.  Oh, 
never  fear.  Sir  I" 

So  the  Mayor  went  away,  and  strolled  across 
the  fields  to  his  Bailiff's  cottage,  to  prepare  for 
the  guest  it  would  receive. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  that  the  poor  man  should 
be  away  for  some  days,"  thought  Mr.  Hartopp.  I 
"Before  he  comes  again,  I  shall  have  hit  on  ; 
some  plan  to  ser\"e  him ;  and  I  can  learn  more  | 
about  him  from  the  child  in  his  absence,  and  j 
see  what  he  is  really  fit  for.     There's  a  school- 
master wanted  in  ilorley's  village.     Old  ilorley  | 
vrrote  to  me  to  recommend  him  one.     Good  j 
salary — pretty  house.     But  it  would  be  wrong 
to  set  over  young  children — recommend  to  a  | 
respectable  proprietor  and  his  parson — a  man 
whom  I  know  nothing  about.     Impossible  !  that 
will  not  do.     If  there  was  any  place  of  light 
service  which  did  not  require  trust  or  responsi- 
bility— but  there  is  no  such  place  in  Great  Brit- 
ain.    Suppose  I  were  to  set  him  up  in  some 
easy  way  of  business-^a  little  shop,  eh?  I  don't 
know.     What  would  Williams  say  ?     If,  indeed, 
I  were  taken  in  I — if  the  man  I  am  thus  credu- 
lously trusting  turned  out  a  rogue" — the  Mayor 
paused  and  actually  shivered  at  that  thought — 
"  why  then,  I  should  be  fallen  indeed.     3Iy  wife 
would   not   let   me   have  half-a-croT\-n   in  my 
pockets  ;  and  I  could  not  walk  a  hundred  yards 
but  AVilliams  would  be  at  my  heels  to  protect 
me  from  being  stolen  by  gipsies.     Taken  in  by 
him!     Xo,  impossible !     But  if  it  turn  out  as  I 
suspect — that  contrary  to  vulgar  pritdence.  I  am 
divining  a  really  great  and  good  man  in  difficul- 
ties— Aha,  what   a   triumph   I  shall   then  gain 
over  them  all.     How  Williams  will  revere  me  !" 
The  good  man  laughed  aloud  at  that  thought, 
and  walked  on  with  a  prouder  step. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

A  pretty  trifle  in  its  ■waj-,  no  doubt,  is  the  love  between 
youth  and  youth — Gay  varieties  of  the  bauble  spread 
the  counter  of  the  Great  Toy-Shop — But  thou,  courte- 
ous Dume  Nature,  raise  thine  arm  to  yon  shelf,  some- 
what out  of  everyday  reach,  and  bring  me  down  that 
obsolete,  neglected,  unconsidered  thing,  the  Love  be- 
tween Age  and  Childhood. 

The  next  day  Sophy  was  better — the  day 
after,  improvement  was  more  visible — and  on 
the  third  day  AVaife  paid  his  bill,  and  conducted 
her  to  the  nirnl  abode  to  v.'hich,  credulous  at 
last  of  his  promises  to  share  it  with  her  for  a 
time,  he  enticed  her  fated  steps.  It  was  little 
more  than  a  mile  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the 
town,  and  though  the  walk  tired  her,  she  con- 
cealed fatigue,  and  would  not  suffer  him  to  car- 
ry her.  The  cottage  now  smiled  out  before 
them — thatched  gable  roof,  with  fancy  barge 
board — half  Swiss,  half  what  is  called  Eliza- 
bethan— all  the  fences  and  sheds  round  it,  as 


only  your  rich  traders,  condescending  to  ttim 
farmers,  construct  and  maintain  —  slieds  and 
fences,  trim  and  neat,  as  if  models  in  wax- 
work. The  breezy  air  came  fresh  fro^i  the  new 
haystacks — from  the  woodbine  round  the  porch 
— from  the  breath  of  the  lazy  kine,  as  tliey  stood 
knee-deep  in  the  pool,  that,  belted  with  weeds 
and  broad-leaved  water-lilies,  lay  calm  and 
gleaming  amidst  level  pastures. 

Involuntarily  they  arrested  their  steps,  to  gaze 
on  the  cheerful  landscape  and  inhale  the  balmy 
air.  Meanwhile  the  Mayor  came  out  from  the 
cottage  porch,  his  wife  leaning  on  his  arm,  and 
two  of  his  younger  children  bounding  on  before, 
with  joyous  faces,  giving  chase  to  a  gaudy  butter- 
fly which  they  had  started  from  the  woodbine. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  had  conceived  a  lively  curi- 
osity to  see  and  judge  for  herself  of  the  ob- 
jects of  her  liege  lord's  benevolent  interest. 
She  shared,  of  course,  the  anxiety  which  formed 
the  standing  excitement  of  all  those  who  lived 
but  for  one  godlike  purpose — that  of  preserv- 
ing Josiah  Hartopp  from  being  taken  in.  But 
whenever  the  Mayor  specially  wished  to  se- 
cure his  wife's  countenance  to  any  pet  project 
of  his  own,  and  convince  her  either  that  he  was 
not  taken  in,  or  that  to  be  discreetly  taken  in  is, 
in  this  world,  a  very  popular  and  sure  mode  of 
getting  up,  he  never  failed  to  attain  his  end. 
That  man  was  the  cunningest  creature !  As 
full  of  wiles  and  stratagems  in  order  to  get  his 
own  way — in  benevolent  objects — as  men  who 
set  up  to  be  clever  are  for  selfish  ones.  ]\Irs. 
Hartopp  was  certainly  a  good  woman,  but  a 
made  good  woman.  Married  to  another  man,  I 
suspect  that  she  would  have  been  a  shrew.  Ve- 
trnchio  would  have  tamed  her,  I"ll  swear.  But 
she,  poor  lady,  had  been  gradually,  but  complete- 
ly subdued,  subjugated,  absolutely  cowed  beneath 
the  weight  of  her  spouse's  despotic  mildness ; 
for  in  Hartopp  there  icas  a  v.eight  of  soft  quiet- 
ude, of  placid  oppression,  wholly  irresistible.  It 
would  have  buried  a  Titaness  under  a  Pelion  of 
moral  feather-beds.  Mass  upon  mass  of  downy 
influence  descended  upon  you,  seemingly  yield- 
ing as  it  fell,  enveloping,  overbearing,  stifling 
you  ;  not  presenting  a  single  hard  point  of  con- 
tact ;  giving  in  as  you  pushed  against  it ;  sup- 
pleing  itself  seductively  round  you,  softer  and 
softer,  heavier  and  heavier,  till,  I  assure  you, 
ma'am,  no  matter  how  high  your  natural  wifely 
spirit,  you  would  have  had  it  smothered  out  of 
you,  your  last  rebellious  murmur  dying  languidly 
away  under  the  descending  fleeces. 

"  So  kind  in  yon  to  come  with  me,  JIary," 
sa^d  Hartopp.     "I  could  not  have  been  hap- 
'  py  without  your  approval :  look  at  the  child — 
I  something  about  her  like  Mary  Anne,  and  Mary 
Anne  is  the  picture  of  you  !" 
I      Waife  advanced,  uncovering;  the  two  chil- 
dren, having  lost  trace  of  the  butterfly,  liad  run 
up  toward  Sophy.    But  her  shy  look  made  them- 
selves shy — shyness  is  so  contagious — and  they 
'  stood  a  "little  aloof,  gazing  at  her.     Sir  Isaac 
stalked  direct  to  the  Mayor,  sniffed  at  him,  and 
wagiied  his  tail. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  now  bent  over  Sophy,  and  ac- 
knowledging that  the  face  was  singularly  prett}', 
glanced  "graciouslv  toward  her  husband,  and 
said,  '•!  see  the  likeness!"  then  to  Sophy,  "I 
fear  you  are  tired,  my  dear ;  you  must  not  over- 
,  fatigue  yourself— and  you  must  take  milk  fresh 


•  I  t 


VTHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  FT  ? 


«  e  oo«M  •■>«  a  att^  I 


■:rr 


tmjimgJ     I  kA«« 


tad  TOO,  b«f  ir 
rtiper  boM,  wbere  jv^ 
OM  who.  »f  he  |Je«^ 
ay  dtr.  c(Mja  uV  -  • 
,aad  ros  oat — * 


^.  a«aU  Boc'be  above  IS  afar, 
.  >  .:««i  oa  — rrfiili  far  famcj-wtA»  m 
ware     Ak:  bstfaniODe— todkaadtaUca 
—  laoatfvoat  dear. 

••  CJb  oa,  TCTT  litxle  voaU  do  a>  i«." 

Ivct  M  coaat  tW  mocct  ve  kare  kft,'  caid 

throviaf  kiaaeif  do«a  oa  a  |«ece  «f 

.:iaS«adrckda»kadTaaftcfTTtree.   OU 

sa^  ud  ckOd  coasted  tka  ■oty.  W  >y  ki^ 

I  fiUrtHuaaJamij — >*fcMi»t, imatimjftiugtad 

.d  M«MM  at  andi  a>  i»  artiaj  fla^*— ik^ 
en  akeorted  ia  tke  falem     iaai*<aT 


I  U 


.tm%i     immuttmt  m  tke  fatan jdaaaed  by 
6«ak  teM  Rabimmm  Crwoc  or  : 


iVr— I 


r  a»,    cr: 


.  i 
ft. 
cr  kefeaiw  Twa  mn  p^trntm'.  -»  atat 
.a  r,f  aie.- 

-  exywina  of  K 
relaxed  iato  ic 

jMJar  kit  ana  idi<>  r.rr«.  k^-i 

.  aak  owe  wn  ia*a  tke  Wokea 

-  '-»U  Mr^oft,  ko  drew  ker 

^  yaeed  tka  Iktk  ordea 

;,-r,,t!i  U  tecaed  to  te- 

liaarj  ckecrfal 


Mcabcr;  jart  tke  fkme 
addealT.  '^It  »  saaj 
IvMtkcrc;  Ivaecoafi 
rn  ^  Utfj  »:  'te  ti—  eht  atat!  ta  i 
m1  tko^ku  ao« !  jan  tke  ptaee,  aear  a  lani 
/VB.  kA  ta  a  preny  Tina^  qaata  reciied  fhii 
..  Twat  tkcta  I  kafwd  to  aake  bat^^ 
jd  baokea  "-^  ^r — f^D  fireea  a  korte — aockn 
,^     II  AS  oU  batkd-makjer :  1 

^1  »  rii  JUrmki  at  tke  back  oi  k 

.X  Mten.  finu'ol-    l»aetke«BW 
«s  fiwB  aij  littk  caterat  wto 
B,  kdL  »*»  teaiac.    Aad  Liny  a«d  to  ' 
to  ae  wck  dear  kocr* ;  nj  batkett  «< 
for  ker.    We  kad  baekcu  cMa«k  to  kair 
aitked  a  ko«a  vitk  batkctt : 


■a»»b«rc 


abatkett,ta»iakatfcrft.tfai»iaba.to».  • 
>fe«  lenoM  leoatdtooa  recover  tke  kaack 
tkewQck.  Iikoakifikeloteetke|daeea«ai 
is  voaU  be  tkakia<  kaadt  vitk  mj  joatk  «■ 
^tan.  Noaa  -fco  «*■"  I«""J  lecopiJ*  « 
eoaU  be  ao«  Iniac  i^,»«»  «^*^J^  " 
ceoa.  tke  batket-aaker.  aad  bit  vrfe ;  all  to  a 

^g^j •  »-  In-*'  aaM  ntkered  to  tkeir  I 

tkert. 

trade  ».»-  •     -  — .-  -  -  -  -     .      „  »_ 

mt^lf;  perkaia  tke  cottage  ittelf  ■a*  be  e« 

iuied.-    That.eTerdi.|««ltobetaa«aiaej 

„«boai  ckawered  oa,  SofAy  bMeaaac  fc^ 

.rTTmrna  ♦  ap  to  kit  face.  -Aadafaeki 
ihcovaert  p«a«  lordt,  deter 
-.  it  b  detcfted  tCilL    Toaai| 


1^  tiaiirt  ■e^rr  aad  bit  wile ;  all  to  a 

mmt  be  hiaic  liace  fatkered  to  «k«r  ( 

pcrkasa  bo  oae  earnca  oa  tke  bad 

mam.ltmtr  nrif  U  aad  kata  it  aO 


•0&3 


.Ai  si'^ti  A  r^wJ  ur  '."'J  ot  garvKa  ^-- 


♦ — tack  (reea 

,r.r  zjkm  raaaiag  acroat  tke  W 

'c«r  too !    We  aill  aafce  frieads  a 

...^  keepet*,  aad  we  wiB  eaU  tke  r 

-  SoiAt;  a»dItkallbeaseaia«wkow«a 

iJilAet^  ««l  ,«  tkaU  be  Ike  eacfcaa 

^.e  coaccaled  frtaa  afl  eril  ere*,  k 

,,  of  peari  aader  karee  "(^mt'^ 

^rZami  (nm  the  worii  <^/^^ 

;  *  a.  tke  boa«kt  wkiH*r  aad  the  hi 

l>car  ae,  here  Toa  are—wa  ihoa^t 
io- -  Mid  the  baiUrt  wife ;  "tea  u  w 

ilU  «id  there  .  ^'-^T^'J^IL?!^ 
uhiw«k;  beTlbeproaUaadtladtoki 


9f 


WHAT  WILL  HE  IK)  WITH  IT? 


-n  out.  bat  with 


joo.  Sir,  and  joa  too,  mr  dear ;  we  bare  no  |  raprant,  will  not  gradge  the  uriog  band 
ebiidrcn  of  our  own.** 
It  is  past  elcren.     ^ 
emotions  far  more  pi 
known,  is  fust  asleep, 
looking  at  her.     lie 

and  soft—-'  ' • 

bend-t  ovt. 

tear ;    lie   - 

At  t'..        • 


harmle&s  child.' 

The  letter  to  Snphr  ran  tha«  : 
'  me ;    I   have 

r  a  few  dnv*. 


drar.     I  shall  be  «. 
and  not  feel  an  achc 


-  Isaac. 
h.  'Ir.  Gooch. 

'^You'll  Dul  know  Lcr  an^nuu  wLeu   vou  come    not  keep  up  with  mc — \<,a  Lnv>a  \ui. 
bark."  I  So  think  c>\cr  the  roitac-p  and  the  !• 

W..  I  the  band  of  bis  grandchild's    and  ; 

bost.  :  speak.  it  i> 


bean. 


.  Sir?     It 
.  awav  at  t! 
liut  1  uuU«.r!>tand  you 
—we  men  d"n't ;  and  ronr 
1. 1  dare  sav,  wt  ■  '  " 
if  she  knew,     i 

;'  ■   on.       And  1   -.i'.  <i     ii  i   nv;  iiiA.nu  mi  . 

children  dcArlr — so  do   I.      Good- 


Un  wer.' 


slowlv — ' 


.rt.   lo    tliC 

.  under  ibii 
Ijj"  dj a u  bu  rest. 


■il  lukllt*  ilk  i.u.^ii,,^  \ 

«hnll  never  «t.nnil  o;  h 


....    i  -.-  ...,.  1,    h 
fancy  I  <ic*ert    w 
!  .  ^  .  quite  well ;  I  i 

•  >i  you  on  my  k 

The  letter  ui  _•  were  taken  ot« 

•unrise,  to   Mr.  llar^'^'p"  vilhs.     Mr.  Ha  ^ 
«-••    nn    earlv    man.      Siiphv    rnvr«lept    hei   f 
■  ■•  .    •.■      .  }, 


-  of  the  »t  I 

.r  early.     1'. 
I  fri>m  the  window,  s^a  il. 
•  ••n*.  ami.  a.<hamcd  uf  her 
■   ■    ■     ■      letter  on  i!      •    i 
licr ;  Uic  tr        ■  1 


r 


CHAITKR  XXIV. 
Laa  gDK:iorebodia(B  of  eril,  bat  trembta  after  (U7-4reaias    f 


w< 


_•  .  J'liM.(^U    UU 


«he 


[laie.     It  was 
Mkc  up  the  lctt( 
ilic  hcal.     Wh<  ■ 
y,  her  tears  dn  ]    . 
t   cHort   or   sob.     Sin-   l,:i 
•V,  no  ^.Ticf  in  bcinj;  k-fi  ; 


"  1  trust,  dear  and  honored  Sir,  that  I  shall 
come  back  safc-ly ;  and  w  hen  I  do,  I  mar  have 
found,  jicrhaps,  a  home  for  her,  and  some  way 
of  life  such  as  yon  would  not  blame.  But.  in 
case  of  accident,  I  hare  left  with  Mr.  G'« 
sealed  up,  the  money  we  made  at  Gate*!- 
„.-.  ...  .   ,     ,._,  the    iiK)   '    '     ;     .   .    .  . 

mere  tri;! 

1  •  J  support  '        ...     i  

ly  take  care  of  it.  I  should  not  feel  safe  with 
more  money  about  me,  an  old  man.  I  might 
be  robbed ;  besides,  I  am  careless.  I  never  can 
keep  money ;  it  slipa  out  of  my  hands  like  an 
(  '  "  en  bless  you.  Sir;  your  kindness 
a  miracle  vouchsafed  to  me  for  that 
c... .  -.^ar  sake.  No  oil  can  chance  to  her 
with  you ;  and  if  I  should  fall  ill  and  die,  even 
then  you,  who  would  have  aided  the  tricksome 


fice — this  it  was  that  .••titluf^cd  her  v 
with  unutterable  yearning.*  of  tcndcrir 
tude.  pity,  veneration.     But  when  she  liuJ 
(iilently  for  wimf*  timf .  «he  kissed  the  leitpr 
■  1  to  that  I! 

j'lt  her  fir-" 


— she  would  trj'  and  get  well  and  stronp. 
would  feci,  at  the  distance,  that  she  was  tr 
his  wishes — that  she  was  fitting  herself  i 
again  his  companion;   seven  days  would 
7)a's.     Hope,  that  can  never  long  fjuit    ' 
of  fhildhood,  brightened  over  her  ni' 

as  the  morning  sun  over  a  land.sca|>c  ; 

bcfurc,  had  lain  sad  amidst  twilight  and  i. 
rains. 


lT  will  he  DC)  WITH  IT  ? 


Wheal  ^e  • .: 
pleased  aiwi  sur" 
npon  her  face 

af"-"'  - 

go*  -  " 

TcrK    .--   -  —    -    —     --     —     -    , 

'cinrr£!iei:^:i-r  :'--'-'i-~ — .---inDosea.  eneemu. 
"  ■•  I  X31  ~-^   -;^-i  '^   ^^-  "-''^  don":  pine  s&sr 
Tonr  iood  grandpapa-  as  we  feared  joa  wouiiL'' 
'    -He  raid  me  not  id  pine.''  aaswered  Sophy, 
smpi^.  but  -snta.  a  aui^ermc  Up. 

Waea  The  noon  deepened,  and  k  became  ido 
^-^  -  -rr::ise.  Sotiiij  nmidlv  asked  if  Mzs. 
^2_  -  •cvcrsteda  and  kniEiing-needlea. 

an  _  romodaied  vrixh.  zhose  impleniHns 

^--  ..  siie  -vriiiidrew  u)  me  arbat  and 

3^;  -_o  wQik — soiiraiy  and  xranqniL 

TTij.:  ziaae.  perhaiH.  die  chief  scren^th  in 
liui  :?ocr  child's  namre.  was  iis  imense  umsifn^- 
3iess"  a  'larr.  perhaps,  cf  its  insiincrive  appretna- 
uon  of  Emm.     She   Lruited  'J.  "Waife — a._^*ie 

■p., _--,   '/-  ^  ;ence — in  her  own   ehilaish. 

-,  Already,  as  her  siiiihi  nn- 

(Tw  ■  -sreds.  and  her  graceful  laste 

shaaeu  m^eir  hues  inro  blended  harmonv.  hsr 
mind  was  weariii;:.  not  less  harmoTiiotisiv_  tae 
hues  in  die  woof  of  dreams  :  the  .•  _  -  -e 
— die  harmless  tasks — 'Waife.  witn  a 

the  arm-chair,  n-niipr  some  perch.  j-- 

thai  one  ■wonder — wiyncuP — wi3±Lr:2.r"—        ■  >^- 


bine.  ^nd  life,  if  Imadde,  lifwiffst,  U'lii.liriil.  net 
"n  ini  r^**  dsv.  90  ^ac  i£  Ttifmftl  ma 
ho'  again,  she  ahonid  not  blmiL  bbt  he  he  bodi- 
ed. And  if  zsi-'-  ^-'-^  -"HB  SB  ^SexBB.  as  hia 
crrandfather  s:-  ''  wu(^t  cwbbb,  as  'siter 

had  crosed  be  ^    — die  wui.  ^do^n  her 

hand,  die  sweet  uus  parfiPii.  saaBa^  a  pacsoEe 
came  beibre  her  eves — her  wT«n<ifiB4n»r  T.tonBl, 
herself ;  all  three,  fi  w^niit  lai.  L_  ,    —sam. 

ruir  as  the  Thames  haaLaeeaaec —  tis  all 

"r^artifMj  m  summer — ""•"  ■^"•■-  -  n  mai 

boaz  they  three,  acri  —  —    "'sj — 

■what  Tn*"^-^^^  wq^TTv"  .  .  — :iti  ; 

fiaH-ng  h^  the  boy  s  m^'jnr-  KUIC  eves.  She 
started,  ^e  heard  noises — a  SH-iigni^  gare — 
Sjoisie^b.  She  started — she  rtjse — Toice*  :  ne 
soance  to  her.  a  man's  vcdce.  then  the  Mj^  -  5. 
A  third  -njice.  mr'Z.  "      '  ""ie  -^caL-j^ 

_  _  — impossi- 

.-~e  tne  looisiEps.    Seized 

-    -_:ht.  she  sprang  to  the 

TTrnTtrTTUT  her  srlarec  two 

She  stood — airested — speH- 


hearo.  ni  mranLy — 
cmeiiy.  Tmser^  '^'"'^ 
biel  year — -•.  ..:vr 
with  die  impTi-^- 

■mrmrri   of  die  ^lOOT. 

na-nz  baletni  eves. 

boraid — as  a  bird  &Lsd  ngid  by  die  gaze  of  a 

sarient. 

-Yes.  ^'-   ^^ ""  --'-      ■    "^    ■^■~     "'8 

giri — on; 

Sach  a   .  .  -.~ 

lore  I"  ^a  Mis.  Crane. 


BOOK     IV. 


CHAPTES  L 


esi  aatttres  diere  is  a  ceradn  aenalii  cness. 
:  Ttnmded.  occasions  tne  same  pain.  »nd 
:.a  same  resennnfint.  as  mornned.  vajuiv 


iziood  man  bankrupr  :     5^0 — n.-  -iS 

, ,„,>..  can  it  be  ?     Seader.  that  fat^  .                          -y 

Vis  esacdv  diai  da-r  week,  toward  die  honr  who  love  Josiah  Harropp  are  ever  it  u-^i..:..  to 

of  five  in  me  eVemn- :  Mr.  Hortopp.  alone  in  die  prevent,  despite  aH  dieir  vig-„ance.  has  occnrreO. 

parlor  behind  his  warehouse,  is  locking  up  his  Joaai  Harropp  has  Deen  x^-t-                  .  -:rmen 

books  and  ledgers  preparuEorv  ro  the  i^mrn  ro  mav  be  occasionai^v  :a^en  :n.  ..                   ""^^ 

his  villa.    Tha^  is  a  certain         -_  _.-,-..       ,^,    „                                   ...  ^ 

pression  of  his  countenance  -  -_ 


snocK. 

Icr 


gnaa. 
eflWT> 

or  ax.  ; 

ooold 

Hare 

>.w  — . 


ouu  a  yoa  will  j;m;;v:c  biivjcu.  ^c  pur- 
^i•r_  "aniliams  giving  orders  in  dje  ware- 
.r-^bousemen 
Tiin-vard — 

-i  in  me 
wear  a 


'<n^h  aU 


;e  was  never 

<.:.      Thus  the  ~ 
imrrancadc  ox'  uie  basie  acdon  un.: 
■"^*^  was  sc  ■'^sll^'n.  "^srr^d  oti  qis  '* 


-e;-  and 


-rtn  carrv  vcmr  jaze 


gcn«:i"aa.    ■ 
.e  occasiLi;. 


94 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


and  Virtue  indeed  a  name  I"  Mr.  Hartopp  felt 
not  only  mortified  but  subjugated — he  who  had 
hitherto  been  the  soft  subjugator  of  the  hardest. 
He  felt  not  only  subjugated,  but  indignant  at  the 
consciousness  of  being  so.  He  was  too  meekly 
convinced  of  Heaven's  unerring  justice  not  to 
feel  assured  that  the  man  who  had  taken  him 
in  would  come  to  a  tragic  end.  He  would  not 
have  hanged  that  man  with  his  own  hands — he 
was  too  mild  for  vengeance.  But  if  he  had  seen 
that  man  hanging,  he  would  have  said,  piously, 
"Fitting  retribution!"  and  passed  on  his  way 
soothed  and  comforted.  Taken  in  I — taken  in 
at  last ! — he,  Josiah  Hartopp,  taken  in  by  a  fel- 
low with  one  eye ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Mayor  is  so  protected  that  he  can  not  help  himself 

A  COMMOTION"  without — a  kind  of  howl — a 
kind  of  hoot.  Mr.  Williams — the  warehouse- 
men, the  tanners,  Mike  Callaghan,  share  be- 
tween them  the  howl  and  the  lioot.  The  May- 
or started — is  it  possible !  His  door  is  burst 
open,  and,  scattering  all  who  sought  to  hold  him 
back — scattering  them  to  the  right  and  left  from 
his  massive  torso,  in  rushed  the  man  who  had 
taken  in  the  IMayor — the  fellow  with  one  eye, 
and  with  that  fellow,  shaggy  and  travel-soiled, 
the  other  dog ! 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  charge  I  in- 
trusted to  you?  My  child — my  child — where  is 
she  ?" 

Waife's  face  was  wild  with  the  agony  of  his 
emotions,  and  his  voice  was  so  sharply  terrible 
that  it  went  like  a  knife  into  the  heart  of  the 
men,  who,  thrust  aside  for  the  moment,  now  fol- 
lowed him,  fearful,  into  the  room. 

"  ]\Ir. —  Mr.  Chapman,  Sir,"  faltered  the 
Mayor,  striving  hard  to  recover  dignity  and 
self-possession,  "I  am  astonished  at  your — 
your — " 

"Audacity!"  interposed  Mr.  Williams. 
"My  child — my  Sophy — my  child!    answer 
me,  man !" 

"Sir,"  said  the  Mayor,  drawing  himself  up, 
"have  you  not  got  the  note  which  I  left  at  my 
bailiff's  cottage  in  case  you  called  there?" 

"  Your  note — this  thing  !"  said  Waife,  strik- 
ing a  crumpled  paper  with  his  hand,  and  run- 
ning his  eye  over  its  contents.  "You  have  ren- 
dered up,  you  say,  the  child  to  her  la^^-ful  pro- 
tector? Gracious  Heavens !  did  7  trust  her  to 
you  or  not?" 

"  Leave  the  room  all  of  you,"  said  the  Mayor, 
with  a  sudden  return  of  his  usual  calm  vigor. 

"You' go — you.  Sirs;  what  the  deuce  do  you 
do  here?"  growled  Williams  to  the  meaner 
throng.  "Out! — I  stay;  never  fear,  men,  I'll 
take  care  of  him  !" 

The  by-standers  surlily  slinked  off,  but  none 
returned  to  their  work  ;  they  stood  within  reach 
of  call  by  the  shut  door.  AYilliams  tucked  up 
his  coat-sleeves,  clenched  his  fists,  hung  his  head 
doggedly  on  one  side,  and  looked  altogether  so 
pugnacious  and  minatory,  that  Sir  Isaac,  who, 
though  in  a  state  of  great  excitement,  had  hith- 
erto retained  self-control,  peered  at  him  under 
his  curls,  stiffened  his  back,  sliowed  his  teeth 
and  growled  formidably. 


"  My  good  Williams,  leave  us,"  said  the  May- 
or ;  "I  would  be  alone  with  this  person." 

"  Alone — you  !  out  of  the  question.  Xow  you 
have  been  once  taken  in,  and  you  own  it — it  is 
my  duty  to  protect  you  henceforth ;  and  I  will 
to  the  end  of  my  days." 

The  IMayor  sighed  heavily — "Well,  Williams, 
well  I — take  a  chair,  and  be  quiet.  Xow,  Mr. 
Chapman,  so  to  call  you  still ;  you  have  de- 
ceived me." 

"  I— how  ?" 

The  Mayor  was  puzzled.  "Deceived  me," 
he  said  at  last,  "  in  my  knowledge  of  human 
nature.  I  thought  you  an  honest  man.  Sir. 
And  you  are — but  no  matter." 

Waife  (impatiently).  "  ^ly  child,  my  child  ! 
you  have  given  her  up — to — to — " 

Mayor.  "Her  own  father.  Sir." 

Waife  (echoing  the  words  as  he  staggers 
back).  "  I  thought  so — I  thought  it !" 

Mayor.  "  In  so  doing  I  obeyed  the  law — he 
had  legal  power  to  enforce  his  demand."  The 
Mayor's  voice  was  almost  apologetic  in  its  tone, 
for  he  was  afl'ected  by  Waife's  anguish,  and  not 
able  to  silence  a  pang  of  remorse.  After  all,  he 
had  been  trusted ;  and  he  had,  excusably  per- 
haps, necessarily  perhaps,  but  still  he  had  failed 
to  fulfill  the  trust.  "But,"  added  the  INIayor, 
as  if  reassuring  himself — "  But  I  refused  at  "first 
to  give  her  uj),  even  to  her  own  father ;  at  first 
insisted  upon  waiting  till  your  return ;  and  it 
was  only  when  I  was  informed  what  you  your- 
self were  that  my  scruples  gave  way." 

Waife  remained  long  silent,  breathing  very 
hard,  and  passing  his  hand  several  times  over 
his  forehead  ;  at  last  he  said  more  quietly  than 
he  had  yet  spoken,  "Will  you  tell  me  where 
they  have  gone  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  and  if  I  did  know  I  would 
not  tell  you !  Are  they  not  right  when  they  say 
that  that  innocent  child  should  not  be  tempted 
away  by — by — a —  in  short,  by  you.  Sir?" 

^''They  said!  Her  father— said  that!  —  he 
said  that!  Did  he — did  he  say  it?  Had  he 
the  heart?" 

IMayor.  "  Xo,  I  don't  think  he  said  it.  Eh, 
Mr.  Williams  ?     He  spoke  little  to  me  !" 

Mr.  Williams.  "  Of  course  he  would  not  ex- 
pose that  person.  But  the  woman — the  lady,  I 
mean." 

Waife.  "  Woman !  Ah,  yes.  The  bailiff's 
wife  said  there  was  a  woman.  What  woman  ? 
What's  her  name  ?" 

Mayor.  "  Eeally  you  must  excuse  me.  I  can 
say  no  more.  I  have  consented  to  see  you  thus, 
because  whatever  you  might  have  been,  or  may 
be,  still  it  was  due  to  myself  to  explain  how  I 
came  to  give  up  the  child  ;  and,  besides,  you  left 
money  with  me,  and  that,  at  least,  I  can  give  to 
your  own  hand." 

The  iVIayor  turned  to  his  desk,  unlocked  it, 
and  drew  forth  the  bag  which  Waife  had  sent 
to  him. 

As  he  extended  it  toward  the  Comedian,  his 
hand  trembled  and  his  cheek  flushed.  For 
Waife's  one  bright  eye  had  in  it  such  depths  of 
reproach,  that  again  the  Mayor's  conscience  was 
sorely  troubled,  and  he  would  have  given  ten 
times  the  contents  of  that  bag  to  have  been  alone 
with  the  vagrant,  and  to  have  said  the  soothing 
things  he  did  not  dare  to  say  before  Williams, 
who  sate  tliere  mute  and  grim,  guarding  him 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


95 


from  being  Once  more  "taken  in/'  "If  you 
had  confided  in  me  at  first,  Mr.  Chapman,"  he 
said,  pathetically,  "  or  even  if  now,  I  could  aid 
vou  in  an  honest  way  of  life  I" 

"Aid  him  —  nowl"  said  Williams,  with  a 
snort.  "  At  it  again  I  you're  not  a  man,  you're 
an  angel  I" 

"But  if  he  is  penitent,  Williams." 
"So!  so!  so!"  murmured  Waife.  "Thank 
Heaven  it  was  not  he  who  spoke  against  me — it 
was  but  a  strange  woman.  Oh  I"  he  suddenly 
broke  otf  with  a  groan.  "  Oh— hut  that  strange 
woman — who,  what  car^  she  be?  and  Sophy 
with  her  and  him.  Distraction !  Yes,  yes,  I 
take  the  money.  I  shall  want  it  all.  Sir  Isaac, 
pick  up  that  "bag.  Gentlemen,  good-day  to 
Tou!"  He  bowed;  such  a  failure  that  bow! 
Kothing  ducal  in  it !  bowed  and  turned  toward 
the  door;  then,  when  he  gained  the  threshold, 
as  if  some  meeker,  holier  thought  restored  to 
him  dignity  of  bearing,  his  form  rose,  though 
his  face  softened,  and  stretching  his  right  hand 
toward  the  ^Mayor,  he  said:  "You  did  but  as  all 
perhaps  would  have  done  on  the  evidence  before 
you.  Y'ou  meant  to  be  kind  to  her.  If  you 
knew  all.  how  you  would  repent !  I  do  not  blame 
— I  forgive  you." 

He  was  gone ;  the  Mayor  stood  transfixed. 
Even  Williams  felt  a  cold,  comfortless  chill. 
"  He  does  not  look  like  it,"  said  the  foreman. 
"  Cheer  up.  Sir,  no  wonder  you  were  taken  in — 
who  would  not  have  been?" 

"Hark!  that  hoot  again.  Go,  Williams, 
don't  let  the  men  insult  him.  Do,  do.  I  shall 
be  grateful." 

But  before  Williams  got  to  the  door,  the  crip- 
ple and  his  dog  had  vanished ;  vanished  down  a 
dark  narrow  alley  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  The  rude" workmen  had  followed  him  to 
the  mouth  of  the  alley,  mocking  him.  Of  the 
exact  charge  against  the  Comedian's  good  name 
they  were  "not  informed:  that  knowledge  was 
confined  to  the  Mayor  and  Mr.  Williams.  But 
the  latter  had  drop"ped  such  harsh  expressions, 
that,  bad  as  the  charge  might  really  be,  all  in 
Mr.  Hartopp's  employment  probably  deemed  it 
worse,  if  possible,  than  it  really  was.  And 
wretch  indeed  must  be  the  man  by  whom  the 
^Mayor  had  been  confessedly  taken  in,  and  whom 
the  Mayor  had  indignantly  given  up  to  the  re- 
proaches of  his  own  conscience.  But  the  crip- 
ple was  now  out  of  sight,  lost  amidst  those  laby- 
rinths of  squalid  homes  which,  in  great  towns,  are 
thrust  beyond  view,  branching  oft" abruptly  behind 
High  Streets  and  Market-places ;  so  that  stran- 
gers passing  only  along  the  broad  thoroughfares, 
with  glittering  shops  and  gas-lit  causeways,  ex- 
claim, "^^^le^e  do  the  Poor  live?" 


CHAPTER  m. 

Ecce  iterum  Crispinns! 


It  was  by  no  calculation,  but  by  involuntary 
impulse,  that  Waife,  thus  escaping  from  the 
harsh  looks  and  taunting  raurmui-s  of  the  gos- 
iips  round  the  ^Layor's  door,  dived  into  those 
sordid  devious  lanes.  Vaguely  he  felt  that  a 
ban  was  upon  him;  that  the  covering  he  had 
thrown  over  his  brand  of  outcast  was  lifted  up; 
that  a  sentence  of  expulsion  from  the  High 


Streets  and  Market-places  of  decorous  life  was 
passed  against  him.  He  had  been  robbed  of  his 
child,  and  Society,  si>eaking  in  the  voice  of  the 
Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  said,  "  Rightly !  thou  art 
not  fit  companion  for  the  innocent  I" 

At  length  he  found  himself  out  of  the  town, 
beyond  its  straggling  suburbs,  and  once  more  on 
the  solitary  road.  He  had  already  walked  far 
that  day.  He  was  thoroughly  exhausted.  He 
sate  himself  down  in  a  dry  ditch  by  the  hedge- 
row, and  taking  his  head  between  his  hands, 
strove  to  re-collect  his  thoughts,  and  rearrange 
his  plans. 

Waife  had  returned  that  day  to  the  bailiffs 
cottage  joyous  and  elated.  He  had  spent  the 
week  in  traveling — partly,  though  not  all  the 
way  on  foot,  to  the  distant  village  in  which  he 
had  learned  in  youth  the  basket-maker's  art! 
He  had  found  the  very  cottage  wherein  he  had 
then  lodged,  vacant,  and  to  be  let.  There 
seemed  a  ready  opening  for  the  humble  but 
pleasant  craft  to  which  he  had  diverted  his  am- 
bition. 

The  bailiff  intrusted  with  the  letting  of  the 
cottage  and  osier-ground,  had,  it  is  true,  re- 
quested some  reference — not,  of  course,  as  to  all 
a  tenant's  antecedents,  but  as  to  the  reasonable 
probability  that  the  tenant  would  be  a  quiet, 
sober  man,  who  would  pay  his  rent,  and  abstain 
from  poaching.  Waife  thought  he  might  safely 
presume  that  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  would 
not,  so  far  as  that  went,  object  to  take  his  past 
upon  trust,  and  give  him  a  good  word  toward 
securing  so  harmless  and  obscure  a  future. 
Waife  had  never  asked  such  a  favor  before  of 
any  man ;  he  shrunk  from  doing  so  now ;  but 
for  his  grandchild's  sake  he  would  waive  his 
scruples  or  humble  his  pride. 

Thus,  then,  he  had  come  back,  full  of  Elysian 
dreams,  to  his  Sophy — his  Enchanted  Princess. 
Gone — taken  away,  and  with  the  flavor's  con- 
sent— the  consent  of  the  very  man  upon  whom 
he  had  been  relying  to  secure  a  livelihood  and 
a  shelter!  Little  more  had  he  learned  at  the 
cottage,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gooch  had  been  cau- 
tioned to  be  as  brief  as  possible,  and  give  him 
no  clew  to  regain  his  lost  treasure,  beyond  the 
note  which  informed  him  it  was  with  a  lawful 
possessor.  And,  indeed,  the  worthy  pair  were 
now  prejudiced  against  the  vagrant,  and  were 
rude  to  him.  But  he  had  not  tan-ied  to  cross- 
examine  and  inquire.  He  had  rushed  at  once 
to  the  Mayor.  Sophy  was  with  one  whose  legal 
'  right  to  dispose  of  her  he  could  not  question. 
•  But  where  that  person  would  take  her — where 
■  he  resided — what  he  would  do  with  her — he  had 
no  means  to  conjecture.  Most  probably  (he 
thought  and  guessed)  she  would  be  canied 
abroad — was  already  out  of  the  countn".  But 
the  woman  with  Losely,  he  had  not  heard  her 
described  ;  his  guesses  did  not  turn  toward  ]\Irs. 
Crane;  the  woman  was  evidently  hostile  to  him 
— it  was  the  woman  who  had  spoken  against 
him — not  Losely ;  the  woman  whose  tongue  had 
poisoned  Hartopp's  mind,  and  turned  into  scorn 
all  that  admiring  respect  which  had  before  greet- 
ed the  great  Comedian.  Why  was  that  woman 
his  enemv?  AMio  could  she  be?  What  had 
she  to  do  with  Sophy  ?  He  was  half  beside  him- 
self with  terror.  It  was  to  save  her  less  even 
from  Losely  than  from  such  direful  women  as 
Losely  made  his  confidants  and  associates  that 


96 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Waife  had  taken  Sophy  to  himself.  As  for 
Mrs.  Crane,  she  had  never  seemed  a  foe  to  hun 
— she  liad  ceded  the  child  to  him  willingly — he 
had  no  reason  to  believe,  from  the  way  in  which 
she  had  spoken  of  Losely  when  he  last  saw  her, 
that  she  could  henceforth  aid  the  interests,  or 
share  the  schemes,  of  the  man  whose  pei'fidies 
she  then  denounced ;  and  as  to  Eugge,  he  had 
not  appeared  at  Gatesboro'.  Mrs.  Crane  had 
prudently  suggested  that  his  presence  would  not 
be  propitiatory  or  discreet,  and  that  all  refer- 
ence to  him,  or  to  the  contract  with  him,  should 
be  suppressed.  Thus  Waife  was  M-holly  with- 
out one  guiding  evidence — one  groundwork  for 
conjecture — that  might  enable  him  to  track  the 
lost;  all  he  knew  was,  that  she  had  been  given 
up  to  a  man  whose  whereabouts  it  was  ditticult 
to  discover — a  vagrant,  of  life  darker  and  more 
hidden  than  his  own. 

But  how  had  the  hunters  discovered  the  place 
where  he  had  treasured  up  his  Sophy  —  how 
dogged  that  retreat  ?  Perhaps  from  the  village 
in  which  we  first  saw  him.  Ay,  doubtless, 
learned  from  Mrs.  Saunders  of  the  dog  he  had 
purchased,  and  the  dog  would  have  sened  to  di- 
rect them  on  his  path.  At  that  thought  he 
pushed  away  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  been  resting 
his  head  on  the  old  man's  knee — pushed  him 
away  angrily ;  the  poor  dog  slunk  otf  in  sorrow- 
ful surprise,  and  whined. 

"Ungrateful  wretch  that  I  am,"  cried  Waife, 
and  he  ojiened  his  arms  to  the  brute,  who 
bounded  forgivingly  to  his  breast ! 

"Come,  come,  we  will  go  back  to  the  village 
in  Surrey.  Tramp,  tramp!"  said  the  cripple, 
rousing  himself.  And  at  that  moment,  just  as 
he  gained  his  feet,  a  friendly  hand  was  laid  on 
his  shoulder,  and  a  friendly  voice  said — 

"I  have  found  you!  the  crystal  said  so! 
Marbellous !" 

"Merle,"  faltered  out  the  vagrant — "  Jlerle, 
you  here  I  Oh,  perhaps  you  come  to  tell  me 
good  news:  you  have  seen  Sophy — you  know 
Avhere  she  is !" 

The  Cobbler  shook  his  head.  "  Can't  see  her 
just  at  present.  Ciystal  says  nout  about  her. 
But  I  know  she  was  taken  from  you — and — and 
— you  shake  tremenjous!  Lean  on  me,  Mr. 
Waife,  and  call  otf  that  big  animal.  He's  a 
suspicating  my  calves,  and  circumtittyvating 
them.  Thank  ye.  Sir.  You  see  I  was  born 
with  sinister  aspects  in  my  Twelfth  House, 
which  appertains  to  big  animals  and  enemies ; 
and  dogs  of  that  size  about  one's  calves  are — 
malefics !" 

As  Merle  now  slowly  led  the  cripple,  and  Sir 
Isaac,  relinquishing  his  first  suspicions,  walked 
droopingly  beside  them,  the  Cobbler  began  a 
long  story,  much  encumbered  by  astrological 
illustrations  and  moralizing  comments.  The 
substance  of  his  narrative  is  thus  epitomized  : 
Rugge,  in  pursuing  AVaife's  track,  had  naturally 
called  on  ^lerle  in  company  with  Losely  and 
Mrs.  Crane.  The  Cobbler  had  no  clew  to  give, 
and  no  mind  to  give  it  if  clew  he  had  pos- 
sessed. But  his  curiosity  being  roused,  he  had 
smothered  the  inclination  to  dismiss  the  in- 
quirers with  more  speed  than  good-breeding, 
and  even  refreshed  his  slight  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  Rugge  in  so  well  simulated  a  courtesy,  that 
that  gentleman,  when  left  behind  by  Losely  and 
Mrs.  Crane  in  their  journey  to  Gatesboro',  con- 


descended, for  want  of  other  company,  to  drink 
tea  with  Mr  Merle ;  and  tea  being  succeeded 
by  stronger  potations,  he  fairh'  unbosomed  him- 
self of  his  hopes  of  recovering  Sophy,  and  his 
ambition  of  hiring  the  York  theatre. 

The  day  afterward,  Hugge  went  away  seem- 
ingly in  high  spirits,  and  the  Cobbler  had  no 
doubt,  from  some  words  he  let  fall  in  passing 
Merle's  stall  toward  the  railway,  that  Sophy  was 
recaptured,  and  that  Rugge  was  summoned  to 
take  possession  of  her.  Ascertaining  from  the 
manager  that  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  had  gone 
to  Gatesboro',  the  Cobbler  called  to  mind  that 
he  had  a  sister  living  there,  married  to  a  green- 
grocer m  a  very  small  way,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  many  years ;  and  finding  his  business 
slack  just  then,  he  resolved  to  pay  this  relative 
a  visit,  with  the  benevolent  intention  of  looking 
up  Waife,  \\'hom  he  expected,  from  Rugge 's  ac- 
count, to  find  there,  and  offering  him  any  con- 
solation or  aid  in  his  power,  should  Sophy  have 
been  taken  from  him  against  his  will.  A  con- 
sultation with  his  crystal,  which  showed  him  the 
face  of  ISIr.  Waife  alone,  and  much  dejected, 
and  a  horary  scheme  which  promised  success  to 
his  journey,  decided  his  movements.  He  had 
arrived  at  Gatesboro'  the  day  before,  had  heard 
a  confused  story  about  a  Sir.  Chapman,  with  his 
dog  and  his  child,  whom  the  Mayor  had  first 
taken  up,  but  who  afterward,  in  some  myste- 
rious manner,  iiad  taken  in  the  Mayor.  Hap- 
pilj-,  the  darker  gossip  in  the  Higli  Street  had 
not  penetrated  the  back  lane  in  which  Merles' 
sister  resided.  There  little  more  was  know^n 
than  the  fact  that  this  mysterious  stranger  had 
imposed  on  the  wisdom  of  Gatesboro's  learned 
Institute  and  enlightened  Mayor.  Merle,  at  no 
loss  to  identify  Waife  with  Chapman,  could  only 
suppose  that  he  had  been  discovered  to  be  a 
strolling  player  in  Rugge 's  exhibition,  after  pre- 
tending to  be  some  much  greater  man.  Such 
an  oftense  the  Cobbler  was  not  disposed  to  con- 
sider heinous.  But  IMr.  Chapman  was  gone 
from  Gatesboro',  none  knew  whither ;  and  Merle 
had  not  yet  ventured  to  call  himself  on  the  chief 
magistrate  of  the  place,  to  inquire  after  a  man 
by  whom  that  august  personage  had  been  de- 
ceived. "Howsomever,"  quotli  Slerle,  in  con- 
clusion, "I  was  just  standing  at  my  sister's 
dooi',  with  her  last  babby  in  my  arms,  in  Scrob 
Lane,  when  I  saw  you  pass  by  like  a  shot.  You 
were  gone  while  I  ran  in  to  give  up  the  babby, 
who  is  teething,  with  malefics  in  square — gone 
— clean  out  of  sight.  You  took  one  turn,  I  took 
another ;  but  you  see  we  meet  at  last,  as  good 
men  always  do  in  this  world — or  the  other,  which 
is  the  same  thing  in  the  long-run." 

Waife,  who  had  listened  to  his  friend  with- 
out other  interruption  than  an  occasional  nod 
of  the  head  or  iuterjectional  expletive,  was  now 
restored  to  much  of  his  constitutional  mood  of 
sanguine  cheerfulness.  He  recognized  Mrs.  Crane 
in  tiie  woman  described,  and  if  surprised,  he  was 
rejoiced.  For  much  as  he  disliked  that  gen- 
tlewoman, he  thought  Sophy  might  be  in  worse 
female  hands.  Without  much  need  of  sagaci- 
ty, he  divined  the  gist  of  the  truth.  Losely 
had  somehow  or  other  become  acquainted  with 
Rugge,  and  sold  Sophy  to  the  manager.  Where 
Rugge  was,  there  would  Sophy  be.  It  could  not 
be  very  difficult  to  find  out  the  place  in  which 
Rugge  was  now  exhibiting ;  and  then — ah  then ! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


97 


raife  whistled  to  Sir  Isaac,  tapped  his  fore-  i 
ead,  and  smiled  triumphantly.     Meanwhile  the  : 
bbbler  had  led  him  back  into  the  suburb,  with  ; 
le  kind  intention  of  offerin<j  him  food  and  j 
ed  for  the  night  at  his  sister's  house.     But 
raife  had  already  formed  his  plan  ;  in  London, 
lid  in  London  alone,  could  he  be  sure  to  learn 
here  Kugge  was  now  exhibiting;  in  London 
lere  were  jilaces  at  which  that   information 
3uld  be  gleaned  at  once.     The  last  train  to  the 
letropolis  was  not  gone.     He  would  slink  round  j 
le  town  to  the  station  ;  he  and  Sir  Isaac  at  that 
our  might  secure  places  unnoticed. 
When  jMcrle  found  it  was  in  vain  to  press 
im  to  stay  over  the  night,  the  good-hearted 
lobbler  accompanied  him  to  the  train,  and, 
hile  Waife   shrunk  him  into  a  dark  corner, 
ought  the  tickets  for  dog  and  master.     As  he 
as  paving  for  these,  he  overheard  two  citizens 
liking"  of  Mr.  Chapman.     It  was  indeed  Mr. 
Villiams  explaining  to  a  fellow-burgess  just  re- 
iinied  to  Gatcsboro',  after  a  week's  absence, 
ov,-  and  by  what  manner  of  man  Jlr.  Hartojip 
ad  been  "taken  in.     At  what  Williams  said, 
lie  Cobbler's  cheek  paled.    When  he  joined  the 
'omcdian,  his  manner  was  greatly  altered ;  he 
;ave  the  tickets  without  speaking,  but  looked 
iard  into  Waifc's  face,  as  the  latter  repaid  him 
he  fares.     "No,"  said  the  Cobbler,  suddenly, 
•  I  don't  believe  it." 

"Believe  what?"  asked  Waife,  starlled. 

"  That  you  are — " 

The  Cobbler  paused,  bent  forward,  andwhis- 
)ered  the  rest  of  the  sentence  close  in  the  va- 
grant's ear.  Waife's  head  fell  on  his  bosom,  but 
le  made  no  answer. 

"  Speak,"  cried  Merle ;  "  say  'tis  a  lie."  The 
)oor  cripple.'s  lip  writhed,  but  he  still  spoke 
lot. 

Merle  looked  aghast  at  that  obstinate  silence. 
\t  length,  but  very  slowly,  as  the  warning  bell 
;ummoned  him  and  Sir  Isaac  to  their  several 
jlaces  in  the  train,  AYaife  found  voice.  '"So 
rou  too,  you  too  desert  and  despise  me !  God's 
.vill  be  "done!"  He  moved  away — spiritless, 
imping,  hiding  his  face  as  well  as  he  could, 
rhe  porter  took  the  dog  from  him,  to  thrust  it 
into  one  of  the  boxes  reserved  for  such  four- 
footed  passengers. 

Waife,  thus  parted  from  his  last  friend — I 
mean  the  dog — looked  after  Sir  Isaac  wistfully, 
and  crejjt  into  a  third-class  carriage,  in  which 
luckily  there  was  no  one  else.  Suddenly  Merle 
jumped  in,  snatched  his  hand,  and  pressed  it 
tightly.  '■  I  don't  despise,  I  don't  turn  my  back 
on  you  ;  whenever  you  and  the  little  one  want 
a  home  and  a  friend,  come  to  Kit  Merle  as  be- 
fore, and  I'll  bite  my  tongue  out  if  I  ask  any 
more  questions  of  you;  I'll  ask  the  stars  in- 
stead." 

The  Cobbler  had  but  just  time  to  splutter  out 
these  comforting  words,  and  redescend  the  car- 
riage, when  the  train  put  itself  into  movement, 
and  the  lifelike  iron  miracle,  fuming,  hissing, 
and  screeching,  bore  off  to  London  its  motley 
convoy  of  human  beings,  each  passenger's  heart 
a  mystery  to  the  other,  all  bound  the  same  road, 
all  wedged  close  within  the  same  whirling  mech- 
anism :"what  a  separate  and  distinct  world  in 
each!  Such  is  Civilization !  How  like  we  are 
one  to  the  other  in  the  mass !  how  strangely 
dissimilar  in  the  abstract! 


CHAPTEK  IV. 

"  If,"  says  a  great  thinker  (Degeeakpo,  Du  PcrfccHon- 
iHcnt  Moral,  chap,  ix.,  "On  the  Uifficultits  we  en- 
counter in  Self  Study") — "If  one  concentrates  reflec- 
tion too  much  on  one's  self,  one  ends  by  wo  longer  see- 
ing any  thing,  or  seeing  only  what  one  w  ishes.  Bv  the 
very  act,  as  it  were,  of  capturing  one's  self,  the  person- 
age we  believe  we  have  seized,  ercapes,  disappears. 
Nor  is  it  only  the  complexity  of  our  inner  being  which 
obstructs  our  examination,  but  its  exceeding  variability. 
The  investigator's  regard  should  embrace  all  the  sides 
of  the  subject,  and  perseveringly  pursue  all  its  phases." 

It  is  the  race-week  in  Humberston,  a  county 
town  far  from  Gatesboro',  and  in  the  north  of  En- 
gland.    The  races  last  three  days ;  the  first  day 
is  over ;  it  has  been  a  brilliant  spectacle ;  the 
course  crowded  with  the  carnages  of  jirovincial 
magnates,  with  equestrian  bettere  of  note  from 
the  metropolis ;  blacklegs  in  great  muster ;  there 
have  been  gaming-booths  on  the  ground,  and 
gipsies  telling  fortunes  ;  much  Champagne  im- 
bibed by  the  well-bred,  much  soda-water  and 
brandy   by  the   vulgar.     Thousands   and   tens 
of  thousands   have  been  lost  and  won ;   some 
paupers  been  for  the  time  enriched  ;  some  rich 
men  made  poor  for  life.    Horses  have  won  fame; 
some  of  their  owners  lost  character.     Din  and 
uproar,  and  coarse  oaths,  and  rude  passions — 
all  have  had  their  hour.     The  amateurs  of  the 
higher  classes  have  gone  back  to  dignified  coun- 
try-houses, as  courteous  hosts  or  favored  guests. 
The  professional  speculators  of  a  lower  grade 
have  poured  back  into  the  county  town,  and  inns 
and  taverns  are  crowded.     Drink  is  hotly  called 
for  at  reeking  bars ;  waiters  and  chambermaids 
pass  to  and  fro,  with  dishes,  and  tankards,  and 
bottles  in  their  hands.     All  is  noise  and  bustle, 
and  eating  and  swilling,  and  disputation  and 
slang,  wild  glee  and  wilder  despair  among  those 
who  come  back  from  the  race-course  to  the  inns 
in  the  county  town.     At  one  of  these  taverns, 
neither  the  best  nor  the  worst,  and  in  a  small 
narrow  slice  of  a  room  that  seemed  robbed  from 
the  landing-place,  sate  .Mrs.  Crane,  in  her  iron- 
gray  silk  gov.n.     She  was  seated  close  by  the 
open  window,  as  carriages,  chaises,  flies,  carts, 
vans,  and  horsemen  succeeded  each  other  thick 
and   fast,  watching  the  scene  with  a  soured, 
scornful  lock.     For  human  joy,  as  for  human 
grief,  she  had  little  sympathy.     Life  had  no 
Satumalian  holidays  left  for  her.    Some  memory 
in  her  past  had  poisoned  the  well-springs  of  her 
social  being.     Hopes  and  objects  she  had  still, 
but  out  of  the  wrecks  of  the  natural  and  health- 
ful existence  of  womanhood  those  objects  and 
hopes  stood  forth  exaggerated,  intense,  as  are 
the  ruling  passions  in  monomania.     A  bad  wo- 
man is  popularly  said  to  be  worse  than  a  wicked 
man.     If  so,  partly  because  women,  being  more 
solitarv-,  brood  more  unceasingly  over  cherished 
I  ideas,  "whether  good  or  evil ;  partly  also,  for  the 
'  same  reason  that  makes  a  wicked  gentleman, 
who  has  lost  caste   and  character,  more  irre- 
claimable than  a  wicked  clown,  low-born  and 
'  low-bred,  viz.,  that  in  proportion  to  the  loss  of 
shame  is  the  gain  in  recklessness ;  but  principal- 
ly, perhaps,  because  in  extreme  wickedness  there 
[  i"s  necessarily  a  distortion  of  the  reasoning  facul- 
'  ty  ;  and  raaii,  accustomed  from  the  cradle  rather 
to  reason  than  to  feel,  has  that  faculty  more  firm 
against  abrupt  twists  and  lesions  than  it  is  in 
I  woman  ;  where  virtue  may  have  left  him,  logic 
may  still  linger,  and  he  may  decline  to  push 


98 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


evil  to  a  point  at  which  it  is  clear  to  his  nnder- 
standins  that  profit  vanishes  and  punishment 
rests ;  wliile  woman,  once  abandoned  to  ill,  finds 
sufficient  charm  in  its  mere  excitement;  and, 
recjardless  of  consequences,  where  the  man  asks, 
"  Can  I  ?"  raves  out,  "  I  will !"  Thus  man  may 
be  criminal  through  cupidity,  vanity,  love,  jeal- 
ousy, fear,  ambition,  rarely  in  civilized,  that  is, 
reasoning  life,  through  hate  and  revenge;  for 
hate  is  a  profitless  investment,  and  revenge  a 
ruinous  speculation.  But  when  women  are 
thoroughly  depraved  and  hardened,  nine  times 
out  of^teii  it  is  hatred  or  revenge  that  makes 
them  so.  Arabella  Crane  had  not,  however, 
attained  to  that  last  state  of  wickedness,  which, 
consistent  in  evil,  is  callous  to  remorse  ;  she  was 
not  yet  unsexed.  In  her  nature  was  still  that 
essence,  "varying  and  mutable,"  which  dis- 
tinguishes woman  while  womanhood  is  left  to 
hen  And  now,  as  she  sate  gazing  on  the  throng 
below,  her  haggard  mind  recoiled  perhaps  from 
the  conscious  shadow  of  the  Evil  Principle  which, 
invoked  as  an  ally,  remains  as  a  destroyer.  Her 
dark  front  relaxed ;  she  moved  in  her  seat  un- 
easily. "  Must  it  be  always  thus !"  she  muttered 
— "  always  this  hell  here !  Even  now,  if  in  one 
large  pardon  I  could  include  the  undoer,  the 
earth  myself,  and  again  be  human — human, 
even  as  those  slight  trifiers  or  coarse  brawlers 
that  pass  yonder"!  Oh,  for  something  in  com- 
mon with  common  life !" 

Her  lips  closed,  and  her  eyes  again  fell  upon 
the  crowded  street.  At  that  moment  three  or 
four  heavy  vans  or  wagons  filled  with  operatives 
or  laborers  and  their  wives,  coming  back  from 
the  race-course,  obstructed  the  way ;  two  out- 
riders with  satin  jackets  were  expostulating, 
cracking  their  whips,  and  seeking  to  clear  space 
for  an  open  carriage  with  four  thorough-bred  im- 
patient horses.  Toward  that  carriage  every 
gazer  from  the  windows  was  directing  eager 
eyes ;  each  foot-passenger  on  the  pavement  lifted 
his  hat — evidently  in  that  carriage  some  great 
person!  Like  all  who  are  at  war  with  the 
world  as  it  is,  Arabella  Crane  abhorred  the 
great,  and  despised  the  small  for  worshiping  the 
great.  But  still  her  own  fierce  dark  eyes  me- 
chanically followed  those  of  the  vulgar.  The  car- 
riage bore  a  marquis's  coronet  on  its  panels, 
and  was  filled  with  ladies ;  two  other  carriages 
bearing  a  similar  coronet,  and  evidently  belong- 
ing to  the  same  party,  were  in  the  rear.  Mrs. 
Crane  started.  In  that  first  carriage,  as  it  now 
slowly  moved  under  her  very  window,  and 
paused  a  minute  or  more,  till  the  obstructing 
vehicles  in  front  were  marshaled  into  order — 
there  flashed  upon  her  eyes  a  face  radiant  with 
female  beauty  in  its  more  glorious  prime.  Among 
the  crowd  al  that  moment  was  a  blind  man, 
adding  to  the  various  discords  of  the  street  by 
a  miserable  hurdy-gurdy.  In  the  movement  of 
the  throng  to  get  nearer  to  a  sight  of  the  ladies 
in  the  carriage,  this  poor  creature  was  thrown 
forward  ;  the  dog  that  led  him,  an  ugly  brute, 
on  his  own  account  or  his  master's,  took  fright, 
broke  from  the  string,  and  ran  under  the  horses' 
hoofs,  snarling.  The  horses  became  restive; 
the  blind  man  made  a  plunge  after  his  dog,  and 
was  all  but  run  over.  The  lady  in  the  first  car- 
riage, alarmed  for  his  safety,  rose  up  from  her 
seat,  and  made  her  outriders  dismount,  lead 
away  the  poor  blind  man,  and  restore  to  him  his 


dog.  Thus  engaged,  her  face  shone  full  upon 
Arabella  Crane ;  and  with  that  face  rushed  a 
tide  of  earlier  memories.  Long,  very  long 
since  she  had  seen  that  face — seen  it  in  those 
years  when  she  herself,  Arabella  Crane,  was 
young  and  handsome. 

The  poor  man — who  seemed  not  to  realize 
the  idea  of  the  danger  he  had  escaped — once 
more  safe,  the  lady  resumed  her  scat ;  and  nov/ 
that  the  momentary  animation  of  humane  fear 
and  womanly  compassion  passed  from  lier  coun- 
tenance— its  expression  altered- — it  took  the 
calm,  almost  the  coldness,  of  a  Greek  statue. 
But  with  the  calm  there  was  a  listless  melan- 
choly which  Greek  sculpture  never  gives  to  the 
Parian  stone  ;  stone  can  not  convey  that  melan- 
choly— it  is  the  shadow  which  needs  for  its  sub- 
stance a  living,  mortal  heart. 

Crack  went  the  whips ;  the  horses  bounded  on 
— the  equipage  rolled  fast  down  the  street,  fol- 
lowed by  its  satellites.  "  Well !"  said  a  voice  in 
the  street  below,  "I  never  saw  Lady  Montfort  in 
such  beauty.     Ah,  here  comes  my  lord !" 

Mrs.  Crane  heard  and  looked  forth  again.  A 
dozen  or  more  gentlemen  on  horseback  rode 
slowly  up  the  street ;  which  of  these  was  Lord 
Montfort  ? — not  difficult  to  distinguish.  As  the 
by-standers  lifted  their  hats  to  the  cavalcade,  the 
horsemen  generally  returned  the  salutation  by 
simjily  touching  their  own— one  horseman  un- 
covered wholly.  That  one  must  be  the  Mar- 
quis, the  greatest  man  in  those  parts,  with  lands 
stretching  away  on  either  side  that  town  for 
miles  and  miles ;  a  territory  which,  in  feudal 
times,  might  have  alarmed  a  king.  He,  the  civ- 
ilcst,  must  be  the  greatest.  A  man  still  young, 
decidedly  good-looking,  wonderfully  well-dress- 
ed, wonderfully  well-mounted,  the  careless  ease 
of  high  rank  in  his  air  and  gesture.  To  the  su- 
perficial gaze,  just  what  the  great  Lord  of  JMont- 
fort  should  be.  Look  again  !  In  that  fair  face 
is  there  not  something  that  puts  you  in  mind  of 
a  florid  period  which  contains  a  feeble  jdutitude? 
— something  in  its  very  prettiness  that  betrays 
a  weak  nature,  and  a  sterile  mind  ? 

The  cavalcade  passed  away — the  vans  and  the 
wagons  again  usurped  the  thoroughfare.  Ara- 
bella Crane  left  the  window,  and  approached 
the  little  looking-glass  over  the  mantle-piece. 
She  gazed  upon  her  own  face  bitterly — she  was 
comparing  it  with  the  features  of  the  dazzling 
Marchioness. 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Jasper  Losely 
sauntered  in,  whistling  a  French  air,  and  flap- 
ping the  dust  from  his  boots  with  his  kid  glove. 

''  All  right,"  said  ho,  gayly.  "A  famous  day 
of  it." 

"  You  have  won,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  in  a  tone 
rather  of  disappointment  than  congratulation. 

'•Yes.  That  £100  of  Rugge's  has  been  the 
making  of  me.  I  only  wanted  a  capital  just  to 
start  with!"  Heflunghimself  intoachair,  open- 
ed his  pocket-book,  and  scrutinized  its  contents. 
"Guess,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "on  whose  horse  I 
won  these  two  rouleaux?  Lord  Montfort's !  Ay, 
and  I  saw  my  lady !" 

"So  did  I  see  "her,  from  this  window.  She 
did  not  look  hajipy !" 

"Not  happy!— with  such  an  equipage!  neat- 
est turn-out  I  ever  set  eyes  on ;  not  happy,  in- 
deed !  I  had  half  a  mind  to  ride  up  to  her  car- 
riage and  advance  a  claim  to  her  gratitude." 


WILA.T  WILL  HE  DO  ^yITH  IT  ? 


99 


"  Gratitude  !  Oh,  for  vour  part  in  that  mis- 
erable affair  of  which  you  told  me  ?" 

"  Not  a  miserable  affair  for  her,  but  certainly 
/  never  got  any  good  from  it — trouble  for  no- 
thing!    Basta!     No  use  looking  back  1" 

"Xo  use ;  but  who  can  help  it  I"  said  Arabel- 
la Crane,  sighing  heavily;  then,  as  if  eager  to 
change  the  subject,  she  added,  abruptly,  "Mr. 
Ilugge  has  been  here  twice  this  morning,  highly 
excited — the  child  will  not  act.  He  says  you 
are  bound  to  make  her  do  so  I" 

"  Nonsense.  That  is  his  look-out.  /see  aft- 
er children,  indeed  1"' 

Mks.  Crane  (with  a  risible  effort).  "  Listen 
to  me,  Jasper  Losely,  I  have  no  reason  to  love 
that  child,  as  you  may  suppose.  But  now  that 
you  so  desert  her,  I  think  I  feel  compassion  for 
her ;  and  when,  this  morning.  I  raised  my  hand 
to  strike  her  for  her  stubborn  spirit,  and  saw  her 
eyes  unflinching,  and  her  pale,  pale,  but  fearless 
face,  my  arm  fell  to  my  side  powerless.  She 
will  not  take  to  this  life  without  the  old  man. 
She  will  waste  away  and  die." 

LosELT.  "  How  you  bother  me !  Are  you  se- 
rious ?     What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

Mes.  Crake.  "  You  have  won  money  you  say; 
revoke  the  contract ;  pay  Kugge  back  his  £100. 
He  is  disappointed  in  his  bargain;  he  will  take 
the  money." 

LosELY.  I  dare  say  he  will,  indeed.  No — I 
have  won  to-day,  it  is  true,  but  I  may  lose  to- 
morrow, and,  besides,  I  am  in  want  of  so  many 
things ;  when  one  gets  a  little  money,  one  has  an 
immediate  necessity  for  more — ha  I  ha  I  Stiil 
I  would  not  have  the  child  die;  and  she  may 
grow  up  to  be  of  use.  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do  ; 
if,  when  the  races  are  over,  I  find  I  have  gained 
enough  to  afford  it,  I  will  see  about  buying  her 
off.  But  £100  is  too  much:  Rugge  ought  to 
take  half  the  money,  or  a  quarter,  because,  if 
she  don't  act,  I  suppose  she  does  eat." 

Odious  as  the  man's  words  were,  he  said  them 
with  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  render  them  less  re- 
volting— the  laugh  of  a  ven.-  handsome  mouth, 
showing  teeth  still  brilliantly  white.  More 
comely  than  usual  that  day,  for  he  was  in  great 
good-humor,  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  that  a 
man  with  so  healthful  and  fair  an  exterior  was 
really  quite  rotten  at  heart. 

"  Your  own  young  laugh  I"'  said  Arabella 
Crane,  almost  tenderly.  "  I  know  not  how  it  is, 
but  this  day  I  feel  as  if  I  were  less  old — altered 
though  I  be  in  face  and  mind.  I  have  allowed 
myself  to  pity  that  child ;  while  I  speak,  I  can 
pity  you.  Yes  I  pity — when  I  think  of  what  you 
were.  Must  you  go  on  thus  ?  To  what  I  Jas- 
per Losely,"  she  continued  sharjjly,  eagerly, 
clasping  her  hands — "  hear  me — I  have  an  in- 
come not  large,  it  is  true,  but  assured  ;  you  have 
nothing  but  what,  as  you  say,  you  may  lose  to- 
morrow ;  share  my  income  1  Fulfill  your  solemn 
promises — marry  me.  I  will  forget  whose  daugh- 
ter that  girl  is — I  will  be  a  mother  to  her.  And 
for  yourself,  give  me  the  right  to  feel  for  you 
again  as  I  once  did,  and  I  may  find  a  way  to  raise 
you  yet — higher  than  you  can  raise  yourself.  I 
have  some  wit,  Jasper,  as  you  know.  At  the 
worst  you  shall  have  the  pastime — I,  the  toil. 
In  your  illness  I  will  nurse  you;  in  your  joys  I 
will  intrude  no  share.  Whom  else  can  you  mar- 
ry? to  whom  else  could  you  confide?  who  else 
could — " 


!  She  stopped  short  as  if  an  adder  had  stung 
1  her,  uttering  a  shriek  of  rage,  of  pain  ;  for  Jas- 
per Losely,  who  had  hitherto  listened  to  her, 
stupefied,  astounded,  here  burst  into  a  fit  of  mer- 
riment, in  which  there  was  such  undisguised  con- 
tempt, such  an  enjoyment  of  the  ludicrous,  pro- 
voked by  the  idea  of  the  marriage  pressed  upon 
him,  that  the  insult  pierced  the  woman  to  her 
very  soul. 

Continuing   his   laugh,  despite   that   cry  of 
I  wrathful  agony  it  had  caused.  Jasper  rose,  hold- 
'  ing  his  sides,  and  surveying  himself  in  the  glass, 
I  with  ver}-  different  feelings  at  the  sight  from 
'  those  that  had  made  his  companion's  gaze  there 
a  few  minutes  before  so  mournful. 
I      "My  dear  good  friend,"  he  said,  composing 
himself  at  last,  and  wiping  his  eyes,  "excuse  me, 
but  really  when  you  said  whom  else  could  I  mar- 
ry— ha  I  ha  I — it  did  seem  such  a  capital  joke! 
Marry  you,  my  fair  Crane  !     No — put  that  idea 
out  of  your  head — we  know  each  other  too  well 
,  for  conjugal  felicity.    You  love  me  now ;  you  al- 
ways did,  and  always  will— that  is,  while  we  are 
not  tied  to  each  other.     Women  who  once  love 
!  me,  always  love  me — can't  help  themselves.     I 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  except  that  I  am 
I  what  they  call  a  villain!     Ha!  the  clock  strik- 
:  ing  seven — I  dine  with  a  set  of  fellows  I  have 
i  picked  up  on  the  race-ground  ;  they  don't  know 
me,  nor  I  them ;  we  shall  be  better  acquainted 
after  the  third  bottle.     Cheer  up.  Crane  ;  go  and 
scold  Sophy,  and  make  her  act  if  you  can ;  if 
not,  scold  Rugge  into  letting  her  alone.     Scold 
somebody — nothing  like  it,  to  keep  other  folks 
^  quiet,  and  one's  self  busy.     Adieu !  and  pray,  no 
more   matrimonial    solicitations^they  frighten 
me  I     Gad,"  added  Losely,  as  he  banged  the 
door,  "  such  overtures  would  frighten  Old  Nick 
himself!'' 

Did  Arabella  Crane  hear  those  last  words — or 

had  she  not  heard  enough  ?    If  Losely  had  tum- 

I  ed  and  beheld  her  face,  would  it  have  startled 

;  back  his  trivial  laugh?     Possibly;  but  it  would 

;  have  caused  only  a  momentary  uneasiness.     If 

I  Alecto  herself  had  reared  over  him  her  brow 

j  horrent  with  vipers,  Jasper  Losely  would  have 

thought  he  had  only  to  look  handsome,  and  say 

coaxingly,   "Alecto,  my  dear!"  and   the   Fury 

would  have  pawned  her  head-dress  to  pay  his 

washing-bill. 

1      After  all,  in  the  face  of  the  prim  woman  he 

had  thus  so  wantonly  incensed  there  was  not  so 

much  menace  as  resolve.    And  that  resolve  was 

yet  more  shown  in  the  movement  of  the  hands 

than  in  the  aspect  of  the  countenance ;  those 

1  hands — lean,  firm,  nenous  hands — slowly  ex- 

;  panded ;  then  as  slowly  clenched,  as  if  her  own 

I  thought  had  taken  substance,  and  she  was  lock- 

j  ing  it  in  a  clasp — tightly,  tightly — never  to  be 

loosened  till  the  pulse  was  still. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


The  most  enbmifsive  where  they  love  may  be  the  most 
Btnbbom  where  they  do  not  love. — Sophy  is  situbboni 
to  Mr.  Ragge. — That  injured  man  summons  to  his  side 
Mrs.  Crane,  imiuting  the  policy  of  those  potentates  who 
would  retrieve  the  failures  of  force  by  the  successes  of 
diplomacy. 

5tR.  RcGGE  has  obtained  his  object.    Bat  now 
comes  the  question,  "  What  will  he  do  with  it?" 


100 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Question  with  as  many  heads  as  the  Hydra ;  and 
no  sooner  does  an  Author  dispose  of  one  head 
than  up  springs  another. 

Sophy  has  been  bought  and  paid  for — she  is 
now,  lejially,  Mr.  Rugge's  property.  But  there 
was  a  wise  peer  who  once  bought  Punch — Punch 
became  his  property,  and  was  brought  in  triumph 
to  his  lordship's  house.  To  my  lord's  great  dis- 
may Punch  would  not  talk.  To  Rugge's  great 
dismay  Sopliy  would  not  act. 

Rendered  up  to  Jasper  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane, 
they  had  not  lost  an  hour  in  removing  her  from 
Gatesboro'  and  its  neighborhood.  They  did  not, 
however,  go  back  to  the  village  in  which  they 
had  left  Rugge,  but  returned  straight  to  Lon- 
don, and  wrote  to  the  manager  to  join  them 
there. 

Sophy,  once  captured,  seemed  stupefied ;  she 
evinced  no  noisy  passion  —  she  made  no  vio- 
lent resistance.  When  she  was  told  to  love  and 
obey  a  father  in  Jasper  Losely,  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  his  face — then  turned  them  away,  and 
shook  her  head,  mute  and  incredulous.  That 
man  her  father!  she  did  not  believe  it.  Indeed, 
Jasper  took  no  pains  to  convince  her  of  the  re- 
lationship, or  win  her  attachment.  He  was  not 
unkindly  rough ;  he  seemed  wholly  indifferent — 
probably  he  was  so — for  the  ruling  vice  of  the 
man  was  in  his  egotism.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  he  had  bad  principles  and  bad  feelings,  as 
that  he  had  no  principles  and  no  feelings  at  all, 
except  as  they  began,  continued,  and  ended  in 
that  system  of  centralization,  which  not  more 
paralyzes  healthful  action  in  a  state  than  it  does 
in  the  individual  man.  Self-indulgence  with 
him  was  absolute.  He  was  not  without  power 
of  keen  calculation,  not  without  much  cunning. 
He  could  conceive  a  project  for  some  gain  far  off 
in  the  future,  and  concoct,  for  its  realization, 
schemes  subtly  woven,  astutely  guarded.  But 
he  could  not  secure  their  success  by  any  long- 
sustained  sacrifices  of  the  caprice  of  one  hour 
or  the  indolence  of  the  next.  If  it  had  been  a 
great  object  to  him  for  life  to  win  Sophy's  filial 
affection,  he  would  not  have  bored  himself  for 
five  minutes  each  day  to  gain  that  object.  Be- 
sides, he  had  just  enough  of  shame  to  render 
him  uneasy  at  the  sight  of  the  child  he  had  de- 
liberately sold.  So,  after  chucking  her  under 
the  chin,  and  telling  her  to  be  a  good  girl  and 
be  grateful  for  all  that  Mrs.  Crane  had  done  for 
her,  and  meant  still  to  do,  he  consigned  her 
almost  solely  to  that  lady's  care. 

When  Rugge  arrived,  and  Sojihy  was  inform- 
ed of  her  intended  destination,  she  broke  si- 
lence ;  her  color  went  and  came  quickly ;  she 
declared,  folding  her  arms  upon  her  breast, 
that  she  would  never  act  if  separated  from  her 
grandfather.  Mrs.  Crane,  struck  by  her  man- 
ner, suggested  to  Rugge  that  it  might  be  as  well 
now  that  she  was  legally  secured  to  the  manager, 
to  humor  her  wish,  and  re-engage  Waife.  What- 
ever the  tale  with  which,  in  order  to  obtain  So- 
phy from  the  Mayor,  she  had  turned  that  worthy 
magistrate's  mind  against  the  Comedian,  she 
had  not  gratified  Mr.  Rugge  by  a  similar  confi- 
dence to  him.  To  him  she  said  nothing  which 
might  operate  against  renewing  engagements 
vnih  Waife,  if  he  were  so  disposed.  But  Rugge 
had  no  faith  in  a  child's  firmness,  and  he  had  a 
strong  spite  against  Waife,  so  he  obstinately  re- 
fused.    He  insisted,  however,  as  a  peremptory 


condition  of  the  bargain,  that  Mr.  Losely  and 
Mrs.  Crane  should  accompany  him  to  the  town 
to  which  he  had  transferred  his  troop,  both  in 
order  by  their  presence  to  confirm  his  authority 
over  Sophy,  and  to  sanction  his  claim  to  her, 
should  Waife  reappear  and  dispute  it.  For 
Rugge's  profession  being  scarcely  legitimate, 
and  decidedly  equivocal,  his  right  to  bring  up 
a  female  child  to  the  same  calling  might  be 
called  in  question  before  a  magistrate,  and  ne- 
cessitate the  production  of  her  father  in  order 
to  substantiate  the  special  contract.  In  return, 
the  manager  handsomely  offered  to  Mr.  Losely 
and  Mrs.  Crane  to  pay  their  expenses  in  the  ex- 
cursion— a  liberality  "haughtily  rejected  by  l\Irs. 
Crane  for  herself,  though  she  agreed  at  her  own 
charge  to  accompany  Losely,  if  he  decided  on 
complying  with  the  manager's  request.  Losely 
at  first  raised  objections,  but  hearing  that  there 
would  be  races  in  the  neighborhood,  and  having 
a  peculiar  passion  for  betting  and  all  kinds  of 
gambling,  as  well  as  an  ardent  desire  to  enjoy 
his  £100  in  so  fashionable  a  manner,  he  con- 
sented to  delay  his  return  to  the  Continent,  and 
attend  Arabella  Crane  to  the  provincial  Elis. 
Rugge  carried  off  Sophy  to  her  fellow  "or- 
phans." 

And  Sophy  •would  not  act  ! 

In  vain  she  was  coaxed — in  vain  she  was 
threatened — in  vain  she  was  deprived  of  food — 
in  vain  shut  up  in  a  dark  hole — in  vain  was  the 
lash  held  over  her.  Rugge,  tyrant  though  he 
was,  did  not  suffer  the  lasli  to  fall.  His  self-re- 
straint there  might  be  humanity — miglit  be  fear 
of  the  consequences.  For  the  state  of  her  health 
began  to  alarm  him;  she  might  die  —  there 
might  be  an  inquest.  He  wished  now  that  he 
had  taken  ]\Irs.  Crane's  suggestion,  and  re-en- 
gaged Waife.  But  where  jfrts  Waife?  Mean- 
while he  had  advertised  the  Young  Phenome- 
non ;  placarded  the  walls  with  the  name  of  Ju- 
liet Araminta  ;  got  up  the  piece  of  the  Remorse- 
less Baron,  with  a  new  rock  scene.  As  WaifG 
had  had  nothing  to  say  in  that  drama,  so  any 
one  could  act  his  part. 

The  first  performance  was  announced  for  that 
night :  there  would  be  such  an  audience — the 
best  seats  even  now  pre-engaged — first  night  of 
the  race  week.  The  clock  had  struck  seven — 
the  performance  began  at  eight.     And  Sophy 

ATOULD  NOT  ACT  ! 

The  child  was  seated  in  a  space  that  served 
for  the  green-room,  behind  the  scenes.  The 
whole  comjiany  had  been  convened  to  persuade 
or  shame  her  out  of  her  obstinacy.  The  king's 
lieutenant,  the  seductive  personage  of  the  troop, 
was  on  one  knee  to  her,  like  a  lover.  He  was 
accustomed  to  lovers'  jiarts,  both  on  the  stage 
and  oft"  it.  Ofl'  it  he  had  one  favored  phrase, 
hackneyed  but  eft'ective.  "You  are  too  pretty 
to  be  so  cruel."  Thrice  he  now  repeated  that 
phrase,  with  a  simper  that  might  have  melted  a 
heart  of  stone  between  each  repetition.  Be- 
hind Sophy's  chair,  and  sticking  calico-fiowers 
into  the  child's  tresses,  stood  the  senior  matron 
of  the  establishment — not  a  bad  sort  of  woman 
— who  kept  the  dresses,  nursed  the  sick,  revered 
Rugge,  told  fortunes  on  a  pack  of  cards  M-hich 
she  always  kept  in  her  pocket,  and  acted  occa- 
sionally in  parts  where  age  was  no  drawback 
and  ugliness  desirable — such  as  a  witch,  or  du- 
enna, or  whatever  in  the  dialogue  was  poetic- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


ally  called  "  Hag."  Indeed,  Hag  was  the  name 
she  usually  took  from  Rugge — that  wliich  she 
bore  from  her  defunct  husband  was  Gormerick. 
This  lady,  as  she  braided  the  garland,  was  al?o 
bent  on  the  soothing  system,  saying,  with  great 
sweetness,  considering  that  her  mouth  was  full 
of  pins,  "Xow,  deai-y  —  now,  dovey — look  at 
ooself  in  the  glass ;  we  could  beat  oo.  and  pinch 
00,  and  stick  pins  into  oo,  dovey,  but  we  won't. 
Dovey  will  be  good,  I  know ;'  and  a  great  pat 
of  rouge  came  on  the  child's  pale  cheeks.  The 
clo^vn  therewith  squatting  before  her  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  grinned  lustily,  and  shriek- 
ed out,  "My  eyes,  what  a  beauty !" 

Rugge,  meanwhile,  one  hand  thrust  in  his 
bosom,  contemplated  the  diplomatic  efforts  of 
his  ministers,  and  saw  by  Sophy's  compressed 
lips  and  unwinking  eyes,  that  their  cajoleries 
were  unsuccessful.  He  approached,  and  hissed 
into  her  ear,  "Don't  madden  me!  don't  I — you 
Avill  act,  eh?" 

"No,"  said  Sophy,  suddenly  rising ;  and  tear- 
ing the  ■wTcath  from  her  hair,  she  set  her  small 
foot  on  it  with  force.    "Xo!  not  if  you  killed  mel" 

"Gods!"  faltered  Rugge.  "And  the  sum  I 
have  paid!  I  am  diddled  I  Who  has  gone  for 
Mrs.  Crane?" 

"Tom,"  said  the  clown. 

The  word  was  scarcely  ont  of  the  clown's 
mouth  ere  Mrs.  Crane  herself  emerged  from  a 
side-scene,  and,  putting  off  her  bonnet,  laid  both 
hands  on  the  child's  shoulders,  and  looked  her 
in  the  face  without  speaking.  The  child  as 
firmly  returned  the  gaze.  Give  that  child  a 
martAT's  cause,  and  in  that  frail  body  there 
•  would  have  been  a  martyr's  soul.  Arabella 
Crane,  not  inexperienced  in  children,  recognized 
a  power  of  will,  stronger  than  the  power  of  brute 
force,  in  that  tranqtiillity  of  eye — the  spark  of 
calm  light  in  its  tender  bine — blue,  pure  as  the 
sky  ;  light,  steadfast  as  the  star. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  all  of  yon,"  said  Jlrs. 
Crane.  "I  will  take  her  to  your  private  room, 
Mr.  Rugge ;"  and  she  led  the  child  away  to  a 
sort  of  recess,  room  it  could  not  be  rightly  called, 
fenced  round  with  boxes  and  crates,  and  con- 
taining the  manager's  desk  and  two  stools. 

"Sophy,"  then  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you  say 
yon  will  not  act  unless  your  grandfather  be  ■with 
you.  Now,  hear  me.  You  know  that  I  have 
been  always  stern  and  hard  with  you.  I  never 
professed  to  love  you — nor  do  I.  But  you  have 
not  found  me  untruthful.  When  I  say  a  thing 
seriously,  as  I  am  speaking  now,  you  may  be- 
lieve me.  Act  to-night,  and  I  will  promise  you 
faithfully  that  I  will  either  bring  your  grand- 
father here,  or  I  will  order  it  so  that  you  shall 
be  restored  to  him.  If  you  refuse,  I  make  no 
threat,  but  I  shall  leave  this  place ;  and  my  be- 
lief is  that  you  will  be  your  grandfather's  death." 

"Ills  death — his  death — 11" 

"  By  first  dying  yourself.  Oh,  you  smile ; 
yon  think  it  would  be  happiness  to  die.  What 
matter  that  the  old  man  you  profess  to  care  for 
is  broken-hearted  I  Brat,  leave  selfishness  to 
boys — you  are  a  girl !     Suffer !" 

"Selfish  I"  murmured  Sophy,  "  selfish  !  that 
was  said  of  me  before.  Selfish! — ah,  I  under- 
stand. No,  I  ought  not  to  wish  to  die — what 
would  become  of  him  ?"  She  fell  on  her  knees, 
and,  raising  both  her  clasped  hands,  prayed  inly, 
silently — an  instant, not  more.     She  rose,     "if 


101 

I  do  act,  then — it  is  a  promise — you  will  keep 
it.  I  shall  see  him — he  shall  know  where  I  am 
— we  shall  meet!" 

"A  promise — sacred.  I  will  keep  it.  Oh, 
girl,  how  much  you  will  love  some  day — how 
your  heart  will  ache  !  and  when  you  are  my  age, 
look  at  that  heart,  then  at  your' glass — perhaps 
you  may  be,  within  and  %\-it'hout,  like  me." 

Sophy— innocent  Sophy — stared,  awe-strick- 
en, but  uncomprehending.  Mrs.  Crane  led  her 
back  passive. 

"There,  she  will  act.     Put  on  the  wreath. 

I  Trick  her  out.     Hark  ye,  Mr.  Rugge.     This  is 

I  for  one  night.  I  have  made  conditions  with  her : 
either  you  must  take  back  her  grandfather,  or — 
she  must  return  to  him." 

I      "And  my  £100?" 

i      "  In  the  latter  case  ought  to  be  repaid  vou." 

I  "Am  I  never  to  have  the  Royal  York  theatre? 
Ambition  of  my  life,  Ma'am  !*    Dreamed  of  it 

I  tbrice  !      Ha!    but  she  will  act,   and  succeed. 

I  But  to  take  back  the  old  vagabond — a  bitter 
pill !  He  shall  halve  it  with  me !  Ma'am,  I'm 
your  grateful — " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Threadbare  is  the  simile  which  compares  the  werld  to  a 
stage.  Schiller,  less  complimentary  than  Shakspeare, 
lowers  the  illustration  from  a  stage  to  a  puppet-show. 
Bat  ever  between  realities  and  shows  there  is  a  secret 
communication,  an  undetected  interchange  —  some- 
times a  stem  reality  in  the  heart  of  the  ostensible  ac- 
tor, a  fantastic  stage-play  in  the  brain  of  the  unnoticed 
spectator.  The  Bandit's  Child  on  the  proscenium  is 
still  poor  little  Sophy,  in  spite  of  garlands  and  rouge. 
But  that  honest  rough-looking  fellow  to  whom,  in  re- 
spect for  services  to  Sovereign  and  Country,  the  ap- 
prentice yields  way — maybe  not  be — the  crafty  Come- 
dian? 

Takak-taraxtaea — rub-a-dub-dub — play  up 
horn — roll  drtim — a  quarter  to  eight ;  and'  the 
crowd  already  thick  before  Rugge's  Grand  Ex- 
hibition— "Remorseless  Baron  and  Bandit's 
1  Child !  Young  Phenomenon — Juliet  Araminta 
j  — Patronized  by  the  Nobility  in  general,  and 
expecting  daily  to  be  summoned  to  perform  be- 
fore the  Queen — Vivat  RcginaT — Rub-a-dub- 
I  dub.  The  company  issue  from  the  curtain — 
range  in  front  of  the  proscenium.  Splendid 
dresses.     The  Phenomenon  ! — 'tis  she  I 

"  My  eyes,  there's  a  beauty !"  cries  the  clown. 

The  days  have  already  grown  somewhat  short- 
er; but  it  is  not  yet  dusk.  How  charminglv 
pretty  she  still  is,  despite  that  horrid  paint ;  but 
how  wasted  those  poor  bare  sno^^y  arms  ! 

A  most  doleful  lugubrious  dirge  mingles  with 
the  drum  and  horn.  A  man  has  forced  his  war 
close  by  the  stage — a  man  with  a  confounded 
cracked  hurdy-gurdy.  Whine — whine — creaks 
the  hurdy-gurdy,  "  Stop  that — stop  that  mu- 
zeek,"  cries  a  delicate  apprentice,  clapping  his 
hands  to  his  ears. 

"Pity  a  poor  blind — "  answers  the  man  with 
a  hurdy-gurdy. 

"Oh  you  are  blind,  are  you?  but  we  are  not 
deaf.  There's  a  penny  not  to  play.  '\\Tiat  black 
thing  have  you  got  there  by  a  string?" 

"My  dog.  Sir!" 

"Devilish  ugly  one — not  like  a  dog — more 
like  a  bear — with  horns !" 

"I  say,  master,"  cries  the  clown,  "Here's  a 
blind  man  come  to  see  the  Phenomenon !" 


102 


WHAT  ^VILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


The  crowd  laugh  ;  they  make  way  for  the 
blind  man's  black  dog.  They  suspect,  from  the 
clown's  address,  that  the  blind  man  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  company. 

You  never  saw  two  uglier  specimens  of  their 
several  species  than  the  blind  man  and  his  black 
dog.  He  had  rough  red  hair  and  a  red  beard, 
his  face  had  a  sort  of  twist  that  made  every  feat- 
ure seem  crooked.  His  eyes  were  not  bandaged, 
but  the  lids  were  closed,  and  he  lifted  them  up 
piteously  as  if  seeking  for  light.  He  did  not 
seem,  however,  like  a  common  beggar;  had 
rather  the  appearance  of  a  reduced  sailor.  Yes, 
you  would  have  bet  ten  to  one  he  had  been  a 
sailor  ;  not  that  his  dress  belonged  to  that  noble 
calling,  but  his  build,  the  roll  of  his  walk,  the 
tie  of  his  cravat,  a  blue  anchor  tattooed  on  that 
great  brown  hand — certainly  a  sailor — a  British 
tar !  poor  man. 

The  dog  was  hideous  enough  to  have  been  ex- 
hibited as  a  lusits  natures.  —  evidently  very  agefl 
— for  its  face  and  ears  were  gray,  the  rest  of  it 
a  rusty  reddish  black.  It  had  immensely  long 
ears,  pricked  up  like  horns.  It  was  a  dog  that 
must  have  been  brought  from  foreign  parts  ;  it 
might  have  come  from  Acheron,  sire  by  Cerbe- 
rus, so  portentous  and  (if  not  irreverent  the  epi- 
thet) so  infernal  was  its  aspect,  with  that  gray 
face,  those  antlered  ears,  and  its  ineilably  weird 
demeanor  altogether.  A  big  dog,  too,  and  evi- 
dently a  strong  one.  All  prudent  folks  would 
have  made  way  for  a  man  led  by  that  dog. 
Whine  creaked  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and  bow-wow, 
all  of  a  sudden,  barked  the  dog.  iSophy  stifled 
a  cry,  pressed  her  hand  to  her  breast,  and  such 
a  ray  of  joy  flashed  over  her  face  that  it  would 
have  warmed  your  heart  for  a  month  to  have 
seen  it. 

But  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Author,  that 
that  British  Tar  (gallant,  no  doubt,  but  hideous) 
is  Gentleman  Waife,  or  that  Stygiau  animal  the 
snof^y-curled  Sir  Isaac  ? 

Upon  my  word,  when  I  look  at  them  myself, 
I,  the  Historian,  am  puzzled.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  that  bow-wow,  I  am  sure  Sophy  would 
not  have  suspected.  "  Tara-taran-tara.  Walk 
in,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk  in,  the  perform- 
ance is  about  to  commence!"  Sophy  lingers 
last. 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  said  the  blind  man  who  had  been 
talking  to  the  apprentice.  "Yes,  Sir,"  said  he, 
loud  and  emphatically,  as  if  his  word  had  been 
questioned.  "The  child  was  snowed  up,  but 
luckily  the  window  of  the  hut  was  left  open  : 
Exactly  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  that  dog 
came  to  the  window,  set  up  a  howl,  and — " 

Sophy  could  hear  no  more — led  away  behind 
the  curtain  by  the  King's  Lieutenant.  But  she 
had  heard  enough  to  stir  her  heart  with  an  emo- 
tion that  set  all  the  dimples  round  her  lip  into 
undulating  play. 


fastidious  one  than  that  in  the  Surrey  village, 
was  amazed,  enthusiastic. 

"I  shall  live  to  see  my  dream  come  true !  I 
shall  have  the  great  York  Theatre !"  said  Rugge, 
as  he  took  oft'  his  wig  and  laid  his  head  on  his 
pillow.  "Eestore  her  for  the  £100!  not  for 
thousands !" 

Alas,  my  sweet  Sophy,  alas  !  Has  not  the  joy 
that  made  thee  jierform  so  well,  undone  thee  ? 
Ah  !  hadst  thou  but  had  the  wit  to  act  horribly, 
and  be  hissed ! 

"  Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Baron  Kugge." 

Not  that  ordinarily  he  was  a  very  early  man ; 
but  his  excitement  broke  his  slumbers.  He  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  on  the  ground  floor  of  a 
small  lodging-house  close  to  his  Exhibition ;  in 
the  same  house  lodged  his  senior  Matron,  and 
Sophy  herself.  Mrs.  Gormerick  being  ordered 
to  watch  the  child,  and  never  lose  sight  of  her, 
slept  in  the  same  room  with  Sophy,  in  the  upper 
story  of  the  house.  The  old  woman  served 
Rugge  for  housekeeper,  made  his  tea,  grilled 
his  chop,  and  ft)r  company's  sake  shared  his 
meals.  Excitement  as  often  sharpens  the  ap- 
petite as  it  takes  it  away.  Rugge  had  supped 
on  hope,  and  he  felt  a  craving  for  a  more  sub- 
stantial breakfast.  Accordingly,  when  he  had 
dressed,  he  thrust  his  head  into  the  passage,  and 
seeing  there  the  maid-of-all-work  unbarring  the 
street  door,  bade  her  go  up  stairs  and  wake  the 
Hag,  that  is,  Mrs.  Gormerick.  Saying  this,  he 
extended  a  key  ;  for  he  ever  took  the  precaution, 
before  retiring  to  rest,  to  lock  the  door  of  the 
room  to  which  Sophy  was  consigned,  on  the  out- 
side, and  guard  the  key  till  the  next  morning. 

The  maid  nodded,  and  ascended  the  stairs.  4 
Less  time  than  he  expected  jiassed  away  before 
Mrs.  Gormerick  made  her  ajipearance,  her  gray 
hair  streaming  under  her  nightcap,  her  fonn 
endued  in  a  loose  wrapper — her  very  face  a 
tragedy. 

"Powers  above!  What  has  happened?"  ex- 
claimed Rugge,  prophetically. 

"  She  is  gone!"  sobbed  Mrs.  Gormerick  ;  and 
seeing  the  lifted  arm  and  clenched  fist  of  the 
manager,  prudently  fainted  away. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

A  Sham  carries  off  the  Reality. 
And  she  did  act,  and  how  charmingly  !  with 
what  glee  and  what  gusto!  Rugge  was  beside 
himself  with  pride  and  rapture.  He  could 
hardly  perform  his  own  Baronial  part  for  ad- 
miration.  The  audience,  a  far  choicer  and  more 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

Corollaries  from  the  problem  suggested  in  Chapters  VI. 
and  VII. 

Broad  daylight,  nearly  nine  o'clock  indeed, 
and  Jasper  Losely  is  walking  back  to  his  inn 
from  the  place  at  which  he  had  dined  the  even- 
ing before.  He  has  spent  the  night  drinking, 
gambling,  and  though  he  looks  heated,  there  is 
no  sign  of  fatigue.  Nature  in  wasting  on  this 
man  many  of  her  most  glorious  elements  of 
happiness,  had  not  forgotten  a  Herculean  con- 
stitution— always  restless  and  never  tired,  al- 
ways drinking  and  never  drunk.  Certainly  it 
is  some  consolation  to  delicate  individuals,  that 
it  seldom  happens  that  the  sickly  are  very  wick- 
ed. Criminals  are  generally  athletic— constitu- 
tion and  conscience  equally  tough ;  large  backs 
to  their  heads — strong  suspensorial  muscles — 
digestions  that  save  them  from  the  over-fine 
nerves  of  the  virtuous.  The  native  animal  must 
be  vigorous  in  the  human  being,  when  the  moral 
safeguards  are  daringly  overleaped.    Jasper  was 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


103 


not  alone,  but  with  an  acquaintance  he  had 
made  at  the  dinner,  and  whom  he  invited  to  his 
inn  to  breakfast ;  they  were  walking  familiarly 
arm  in  arm.  Ver}-  unhke  the  brilliant  Losely — 
a  young  man  under  thirty,  who  seemed  to  have 
washed  out  all  the  colors  of  youth  in  dirty  wa- 
ter. His  eyes  dull,  their  whites  yellow ;  his  com- 
plexion sodden.  His  form  was  thick-set  and 
heavy ;  his  features  pug,  with  a  cross  of  the  bull- 
dog. In  dress,  a  specimen  of  the  flash  style  of 
sporting  man,  as  exhibited  on  the  turf,  or  more 
often,  perhaps,  in  the  King;  Belcher  neckcloth, 
with  an  immense  pin  representing  a  jockey  at 
full  gallop;  cut  away  coat,  corduroy  breeches, 
and  boots  with  tops  of  a  chalky  white.  Yet, 
v>'itha],  not  the  air  and  walk  of  a  genuine  born 
and  bred  sporting  man,  even  of  the  vulgar  or- 
der. Somethingabout  him  which  reveals  the 
pretender.  A  would-be  hawk  with  a  pigeon's 
liver  —  a  would-be  sportsman  with  a  cockney's 
nurture. 

Samuel  Adolphus  Poole  is  an  orphan  of  re- 
spectable connections.  His  future  expectations 
chiefly  rest  on  an  uncle  from  whom,  as  godfa- 
ther, he  takes  the  loathed  name  of  Samuel. 
Ple'prefers  to  sign  himself  Adolphus;  he  is  pop- 
ularly styled  Dolly.  For  his  present  existence 
he  relies"  ostensibly  on  his  salary  as  an  assistant 
in  the  house  of  a  London  tradesman  in  a  fash- 
ionable way  of  business.  Mr.  Latham,  his  em- 
ployer, has  made  a  considerable  fortune,  less  by 
his  "shop  than  by  discounting  the  bills  of  his  cus- 
tomers, or  of  other  borrowers  whom  the  loan 
draws  into  the  net  of  the  custom.  Mr.  Latham 
connives  at  the  sporting  tastes  of  Dolly  Poole. 
Dolly  has  often  thus  been  enabled  to  pick  up 
useful  pieces  of  information  as  to  the  names 
and  repute  of  such  denizens  of  the  sporting 
world  as  might  apply  to  Mr.  Latham  for  tempo- 
rary accommodation.  Dolly  Poole  has  many 
sporting  friends  ;  he  has  also  many  debts.  He 
has  been  a  dupe,  he  is  now  a  rogue ;  but  he 
wants  decision  of  character  to  put  into  practice 
many  valuable  ideas  that  his  experience  of  dupe 
and  his  development  into  rogue  suggest  to  his 
ambition.  Still,  however,  now  and  then,  when- 
ever a  shabby  trick  can  be  safely  done  he  is 
what  he  calls  ""  lucky."  He  has  conceived  a  pro- 
digious admiration  for  Jasper  Losely,  one  cause 
for  which  will  be  explained  in  the  dialogue 
about  to  be  recorded ;  another  cause  for  which  is 
analogous  to  that  loving  submission  with  which 
some  ill-conditioned  brute  acknowledges  a  mas- 
ter in  the  hand  that  has  thrashed  it.  For  at 
Losely's  first  appearance  at  the  convivial  meet- 
ing just  concluded,  being  nettled  at  the  impe- 
rious airs  of  superiority  which  that  roysterer  as- 
sumed, mistaking  for  effeminacy  Jasper's  elab- 
orate dandyism,  and  not  recognizing  in  the  bra- 
vo's  elegant  ijrojjortions  the  tiger-like  strength 
of  which,  in  truth,  that  tiger  -  like  suppleness 
should  have  warned  him,  Dolly  Poole  provoked 
a  quarrel,  and  being  himself  a  stout  fellow,  nor 
unaccustomed  to  athletic  exercises,  began  to 
spar ;  the  next  moment  he  was  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  full  sprawl  on  the  floor;  and,  two 
minutes  afterward,  the  quarrel  made  up  by  con- 
ciliating banqueters,  with  every  bone  in  his  skin 
seeming  still  to  rattle,  he  was  generously  blub- 
bering out  that  he  never  bore  malice,  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  Jasper  Losely  as  if  he  had  found 
a  benefactor.    But  now  to  the  dialogue. 


Jasper.  "Yes,  Poole,  my  hearty,  as  you  say, 
that  fellow  trumping  my  best  club  lost  me  the 
last  rubber.  There's  no  certainty  in  whist,  if  one 
has  a  spoon  for  a  partner." 

Poole.  "No  certainty  in  every  rubber,  but 
next  to  certainty  in  the  long  run,  when  a  man 
plays  as  well  as  you  do,  Mr.  Losely.  Your  win- 
nings to-night  must  have  been  pretty  large, 
though  you  had  a  bad  partner  almost  every 
hand  ; — pretty  large — eh  ?" 

Jasper  (carelessly).  "Nothing  to  talk  of — a 
few  ponies  I" 

Poole.  "  More  than  a  few ;  I  should  know." 
Jasper.  "Why?    You  did  not  play  after  the 
first  rubber." 

Poole.  "  No,  when  I  saw  your  play  on  that 
first  rubber,  I  cut  out,  and  bet  on  you ;  and  very 
grateful  to  you  I  am.  Still  you  would  win  more 
with  a  partner  who  understood  your  game." 

The  shrewd  Dolly  paused  a  moment,  and 
leaning  significantly  on  Jasper's  arm,  added,  in 
a  half  whisper,  "  I  do  ;  it  is  a  French  one." 

Jasper  did  not  change  color,  but  a  quick  rise 
of  the  eyebrow,  and  a  slight  jerk  of  the  neck, 
betrayed  some  little  surprise  or  uneasiness ;  how- 
ever, he  rejoined  without  hesitation — "French, 
ay !  In  France  there  is  more  dash  in  playing 
out  trumps  than  there  is  with  English  players." 
"And  with  a  player  like  you,"  said  Poole, 
still  in  a  half  whisper,  "more  trumps  to  play 
out." 

Jasper  turned  round  sharp  and  short ;  the 
hard,  cruel  expression  of  his  mouth,  little  seen 
of  late,  came  back  to  it.  Poole  recoiled,  and 
his  bones  began  again  to  ache.  "I  did  not 
mean  to  off'end  you,  Mr.  Losely,  but  to  caution." 
"Caution!" 

"There  were  two  knowing  coves,  who,  if  they 
had  not  been  so  drunk,  would  not  have  lest  their 
money  without  a  row,  and  they  would  have  seen 
how  they  lost  it ;  they  are  sharpers — you  served 
'  them  right — don't  be  angry  with  me.    You  want 
\  a  partner — so  do  I ;  you  play  better  than  I  do, 
but  I  play  well ;  you  shall  have  two-thirds  of  our 
winnings,  and  when  you  come  to  town  I'll  in- 
troduce you  to  a  pleasant  set  of  young  fellows — 
,  green."  ' 

j      Jasper  mused  a  moment.    "  Y'ou  know  a  thing 
!  or  two,  I  see.  Master  Poole,  and  we'll  discuss 
the  whole  subject  after  breakfast.      Arn't  you 
hungry  ? — No !— I  am  !     Hillo !  who's  that  ?" 
j      His  arm  was  seized  by  Mr.  Rugge.     "  She's 
!  gone — fled  1"   gasjied  the  manager,  breathless. 
"Out  of  the  lattice  —  fifteen  feet  high  —  not 
■  dashed  to  pieces — vanished !" 
I      "  Go  on  and  order  breakfast,"  said  Losely  to 
;Mr.  Poole,  who  was  listening  too  inquisitively, 
i  He  drew  the  manager  away.     "  Can't  you  keep 
your  tongue  in  your  head  before  strangers  ?  the 
girl  is  gone !" 

!      "  Out  of  the  lattice,  and  fifteen  feet  high  !'' 
"  Any  sheets  left  hanging  out  of  the  lattice  ?" 
"  Sheets !     No." 

"  Then  she  did  not  go  without  help — some- 
I  body  must  have  thrown  up  to  her  a  rope-ladder 
— nothing  so  easy  —  done  it  myself  scores  of 
j  times  for  tlic  descent  of  •  maids  who  love  the 
moon,'  Mr.  Kugge.  But  at  her  age  there  is  not 
'  a  moon — at  least  there  is  not  a  man  in  the 
I  moon ;  one  must  dismiss,  then,  the  idea  of  a 
'  rope-ladder — too  precocious.  But  are  you  quite 
I  sure  she  is  gone?  not  hiding  in  some  cupboard? 


104 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Sacre .' — very  odd.  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Crane 
about  it?" 

"Yes,  just  come  from  her;  she  thinks  that 
villain  Waife  must  have  stolen  her.  But  I  want 
you,  Sir,  to  come  with  me  to  a  magistrate." 

"Magistrate!  I — why? — nonsense — set  the 
police  to  work." 

"Your  deposition  that  she  is  your  lawful 
child,  lawfully  made  over  to  me,  is  necessary 
for  the  Inquisition — I  mean  Police." 

"  Hang  it,  what  a  bother !  I  hate  magistrates, 
and  all  belonging  to  them.  Well,  I  must  break- 
fast ;  I'll  see  to  it  afterward.  Oblige  me  by  not 
calling  Mr.  Waife  a  villain — good  old  fellow  in 
his  way." 

"Good !     Powers  above !" 

"But  if  he  took  her  off  how  did  he  get  at  her? 
It  must  have  been  preconcerted." 

"Ha!  true.  But  she  has  not  been  suffered 
to  speak  to  a  soul  not  in  the  company — Mrs. 
Crane  excepted." 

"  Perhaps  at  the  performance  last  night  some 
signal  was  given?" 

"  But  if  Waife  had  been  there  I  should  have 
seen  him ;  my  troop  would  have  known  him  ; 
such  a  remarkable  face — one  eye,  too." 

"Well,  well,  do  what  you  think  best.  I'll 
call  on  you  after  breakfast;  let  me  go  now. 
Basta!  basta!" 

Losely  wrenched  himself  from  the  manager, 
and  strode  otf  to  the  inn ;  then,  ere  joining 
Poole,  he  sought  Mrs.  Crane. 

"This  going  before  a  magistrate,"  said  Lose- 
ly, "to  depose  that  I  have  made  over  my  child 
to  that  blackguard  showman — in  this  town,  too 
— after  such  luck  as  I  have  had,  and  where 
bright  prospects  are  opening  on  me,  is  most 
disagreeable.  And  supposing,  when  we  have 
traced  Sophy,  she  should  be  really  with  the  old 
man — awkward !  In  short,  my  dear  friend,  my 
dear  Bella"  (Losely  could  be  very  coaxing  wlien 
it  was  worth  his  while),  "you  just  manage  this 
for  me.  I  have  a  fellow  in  the  next  room  wait- 
ing to  breakfast ;  as  soon  as  breakfast  is  over  I 
shall  be  oft'  to  tlie  race-ground,  and  so  shirk  that 
ranting  old  bore;  you'll  call  on  him  instead,  and 
settle  it  somehow."  He  was  out  of  the  room 
before  she  could  answer. 

Mrs.  Crane  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  soothe 
the  infuriate  manager,  when  he  heard  Losely 
was  gone  to  amuse  himself  at  the  race-course. 
Nor  did  she  give  herself  much  trouble  to  pacify 
Mr.  Rugge's  anger,  or  assist  his  investigations. 
Her  interest  in  the  whole  affair  seemed  over. 
Left  thus  to  his  own  devices,  Ilugge,  however, 
began  to  institute  a  sharp,  and  what  promised 
to  be  an  effective  investigation.  He  ascertained 
that  the  fugitive  certainly  had  not  left  by  the 
railway,  or  by  any  of  the  public  conveyances ; 
he  sent  scouts  over  all  the  neighborhood ;  he 
enlisted  the  sympathy  of  the  police,  who  confi- 
dently assured  him  that  they  had  'a  net-work 
over  the  three  kingdoms  ;'  no  doubt  they  have, 
and  we  pay  for  it ;  but  the  meshes  are  so  large 
that  any  thing  less  than  a  whale  must  be  silly 
indeed  if  it  consent  to  be  caught.  Rugge's  sus- 
picions were  directed  to  Waife — he  could  col- 
lect, however,  no  evidence  to  confirm  them.  No 
person  answering  to  Waife's  description  had 
been  seen  in  the  town.  Once,  indeed,  Rugge 
was  close  on  the  right  scent ;  for,  insisting  upon 
Waife's  one  eye  and  his  possession  of  a  white 


dog,  he  was  told  by  several  witnesses  that  a  man 
blind  of  two  eyes,  and  led  by  a  black  dog,  had 
been  close  before  the  stage,  just  previous  to  t*lie 
performance.  But  then  the  clown  had  spoken 
to  that  very  man  ;  all  the  Thespian  company 
had  observed  him ;  all  of  them  had  known  Waife 
familiarly  for  years  ;  and  all  deposed  that  any 
creature  more  unlike  to  Waife  than  tlie  blind 
man  could  not  be  turned  out  of  Nature's  work- 
shop. But  where  was  that  blind  man?  Tliey 
found  out  the  wayside  inn  in  which  he  had  taken 
a  lodging  for  the  night ;  and  there  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  he  had  paid  for  his  room  before- 
hand, stating  that  he  should  start  for  the  race- 
course early  in  the  morning.  Rngge  himself 
set  out  to  the  race-course  to  kill  two  birds  with 
one  stone  —  catch  Mr.  Losely  —  examine  the 
blind  man  himself. 

He  did  catch  Mr.  Losely,  and  very  nearly 
caught  something  else — for  that  gentleman  was 
in  a  ring  of  noisy  horsemen,  mounted  on  a  hired 
hack,  and  loud  as  the  noisiest.  When  Ilugge 
came  up  to  his  stirrup,  and  began  his  harangue, 
Losely  turned  his  hack  round  with  so  sudden  an 
appliance  of  bit  and  spur  that  the  aniimal  lash- 
ed out,  and  its  heel  went  within  an  inch  of  the 
manager's  cheek-bone.  Before  Rugge  could  re- 
cover Losely  was  in  a  hand  gallop.  But  the 
blind  man  !  Of  course  Rugge  did  not  find  him  ? 
You  are  mistaken ;  he  did.  The  blind  man  was 
there,  dog  and  all.  The  manager  spoke  to  him, 
and  did  not  know  him  from  Adam. 

Nor  have  you  or  I,  my  venerated  readers,  any 
riglit  whatsoever  to  doubt  whether  Mr.  Rugge 
could  be  so  stolidly  obtuse.  Granting  that  blind 
sailor  to  be  the  veritable  William  Waife — Will- 
iam Waife  was  a  man  of  genius,  taking  pains 
to  appear  an  ordinary  mortal.  And  the  anec- 
dotes of  Munden,  or  of  Bamfylde  Moore  Carew, 
suffice  to  tell  us  how  Protean  is  the  power  of 
transformation  in  a  man  whose  genius  is  mimet- 
ic. But  how  often  does  it  ha[)pen  to  us,  vener- 
ated readers,  not  to  recognize  a  man  of  genius, 
even  when  he  takes  no  particular  pains  to  es- 
cape detection !  A  man  of  genius  may  be  for 
ten  years  our  next-door  neighbor — he  may  dine 
in  company  with  us  twice  a  week — his  face  may 
be  as  familiar  to  our  eyes  as  our  arm-chair — his 
voice  to  our  ears  as  the  click  of  our  parlor-clock 
— yet  we  are  never  more  astonished  than  when 
all  of  a  sudden,  some  bright  day,  it  is  discovered 
that  our  next-door  neighbor  is — a  man  of  genius. 
Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  the  life  of  a  man  of 
genius,  but  what  there  were  numerous  witnesses 
who  deposed  to  the  fact,  that  until,  perfidious 
dissembler,  he  flared  up  and  set  the  Thames  on 
fire,  they  had  never  seen  any  thing  in  him — an 
odd  creature,  perhaps  a  good  creature — probably 
a  poor  Creature — But  a  Man  of  Genius  !  They 
would  as  soon  have  suspected  him  of  being  the 
Cham  of  Tartary !  Nay,  candid  readers,  arc 
there  not  some  of  you  who  refuse  to  the  last  to 
recognize  the  man  of  genius,  till  he  has  paid  his 
penny  to  Charon,  and  his  passport  to  immortal- 
ity has  been  duly  examined  by  the  custom-house 
officers  of  Styx  !  When  one  "half  the  world  drag 
forth  that  same  next-door  neighbor,  place  him 
on  a  pedestal,  and  have  him  cried,  "O  yez!  O 
yez !  Found  a  man  of  genius !  Public  property 
— open  to  inspection !"  does  not  the  other  half  the 
world  put  on  its  spectacles,  turn  up  its  nose,  and 
cry,  "  That  a  man  of  genius,  indeed !    Pelt  him! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


105 


— pelt  him !"  Then  of  course  there  is  a  clatter, 
what  the  vulgar  call  "  a  shindy,"  round  the  ped- 
estal. Squeezed  by  his  believers,  shied  at  by 
his  scoffers,  the  poor  man  gets  horribly  mauled 
about,  and  drops  from  the  perch  in  the  midst 
of  the  row.  Then  they  shovel  him  over,  clap  a 
great  stone  on  his  relics,  wipe  their  forelicads, 
shake  hands,  compromise  the  dispute,  the  one 
half  the  world  admitting  that  though  he  was  a 
genius,  he  was  still  an  ordinary  man ;  the  oth- 
er half  allowing  that  though  he  was  an  ordinary 
man,  he  was  still  a  genius.  And  so  on  to  the 
next  jjcdestal  with  its  "  Ilic  stet,"  and  the  next 
great  stone  with  its  "Hie  jacet." 

The  manager  of  the  Grand  Theatrical  Exhi- 
bition gazed  on  the  blind  sailor,  and  did  not 
know  him  from  Adam ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 


The  aboriginal  Man-cater,  or  Pocket-Cannibal,  is  sus- 
ceptible of  the  reiining  influences  of  Civilization.  He 
decorates  his  lair  with  the  skins  of  his  victims ;  lie 
adcrns  his  person  with  the  spoils  of  tliose  whom  lie  de- 
vours. Mr.  Losely  introduced  to  Mr.  Poole's  friends 
— dresses  for  dinner;  and,  combining  elegance  witli 
appetite,  eats  them  up. 

Elatkd  with  the  success  which  had  rewarded 
his  talents  for  pecuniary  speculation,  and  dis- 
missing from  his  mind  all  thouglits  of  tlie  fugi- 
tive Sophy  and  the  spoliated  Kugge,  Jasper  Lose- 
ly returned  to  London  in  company  with  his  new 
t'riend,  Mr.  Poole.  He  left  Arabella  Crane  to 
perform  the  same  journey,  unattended;  but  that 
grim  lady,  carefully  concealing  any  resentment 
at  such  want  of  gallantry,  felt  assured  that  she 
should  not  be  long  in  London  without  being  hon- 
ored by  his  visits. 

In  renewing  their  old  acquaintance,  Sirs. 
Crane  had  contrived  to  establish  over  Jasper 
that  kind  of  influence  which  a  vain  man,  full  of 
schemes  that  are  not  to  be  told  to  all  the  world, 
but  which  it  is  convenient  to  discuss  with  some 
confidential  friend  who  admires  himself  too  higli- 
ly  not  to  respect  his  secrets,  mechanically  yields 
to  a  woman  whose  wits  are  superior  to  his  own. 
It  is  true  that  Jasper,  on  his  return  to  the 
metropolis,  was  not  magnetically  attracted  to- 
ward Podden  Place ;  nay,  days  and  even  weeks 
elapsed,  and  Mrs.  Crane  was  not  gladdened  by 
his  presence.  But  she  knew  that  her  influence 
was  only  suspended — not  extinct.  The  body  at- 
tracted was  for  the  moment  kept  from  the  body 
attracting  by  the  abnormal  weights  that  had 
dropped  into  its  pockets.  Restore  the  body 
thus  temporarily  counterpoised  to  its  former 
lightness,  and  it  would  turn  to  Podden  Place  as 
the  needle  to  the  Pole.  Meanwhile,  oblivious 
of  all  such  natural  laws,  the  disloyal  Jasper  had 
fixed  himself  as  far  from  the  rca'h  of  the  mag- 
net as  from  Bloomsbury's  remotest  verge  is  St. 
James's  animated  centre.  The  apartment  he 
engaged  was  showy  and  commodious.  He  add- 
ed largely  to  his  wardrobe — his  dressing-case — 
his  trinket-box.  iS^or,  be  it  here  observed,  was 
Mr.  Losely  one  of  those  beauish  brigands  who 
wear  tawdry  scarfs  over  soiled  linen,  and  paste 
rings  u))on  unwashed  digitals.  To  do  him  jus- 
tice, the  man,  so  stony-hearted  to  others,  loved 
and  cherished  his  own  person  with  exquisite 
tenderness,  lavished  upon  it  delicate  attentions. 


and  gave  to  it  the  very  best  he  could  afford.    He 
was  no  coarse  debauchee,  smelling  of  bad  cigars  , 
and  ardent  s])irits.     Cigars,  indeed,    were  not 
among  his  vices  (at  worst  the  rare  peccadillo  of 
a  cigarette) — spirit-drinking  was ;  but  the  mon- 
ster's digestion  was  still  so  strong,  that  he  could 
have  drunk  out  a  gin  palace,  and  you  would  only 
havcsniffedthe  jasmin  or  heliotrope  on  the  dainty 
cambric  that  wiped  the  last  droj)  from  his  lips. 
Had  his  soul  been  a  tenth  part  as  clean  as  the 
form  that  belied  it,  Jasper  Losely  had  been  a 
saint !     His  apartments  secured,  his  appearance 
thus  revised  and  embellished,  Jasjicr's  next  care 
was  an  equipage  in  keeping ;  he  hired  a  smart 
cabriolet  with  a  high-stepping  horse,  and,  to  go 
behind  it,  a  groom  whose  size  had  been  stunted 
in  infancy  by  provident  parents  designing  him  to 
earn  his  bread  in  the  stables  as  a  light-weight, 
and  therefore  mingling  his  mother's  milk  with 
heavy  liquors.     In  short,  Jasper  Losely  set  up 
to  be  a  buck  about  town ;  in  that  capacity  Uolly 
Poole  introduced  him  to  several  young  gentle- 
men who  combined  commercial  vocations  with 
sporting  tastes  ;  they  could  not  but  participate 
in  Poole's  admiring  and  somewhat  envious  re- 
spect for  Jasper  Losely.   There  was  indeed  about 
the  vigorous  miscreant  a  great  deal  of  false  brill- 
iancy.    Deteriorated  from  earlier  youth  though 
the  beauty  of  his  countenance  might  be,  it  was 
still  undeniably  handsome;  and  as  force  of  mus- 
cle is  beauty  in  itself  in  the  eyes  of  young  s]jort- 
ing  men,  so  Jasper  dazzled  many  a  gracilis  pver, 
who  had  the  ambition  to  become  an  athlete,  with 
the  rare  personal  strength  which,  as  if  in  the  ex- 
uberance of  animal  spirits,  he  would  sometimes 
condescend  to  dis]ilay,  by  feats  that  astonished 
the  curious  and  frightened  the  timid — such  as 
bending  a  poker  or  horse-shoe,  between  hands 
elegantly  white  nor  unadorned  with  rings — or 
lifting  the  weight  of  Samuel  Dolly  by  the  waist- 
band, and  holding  him  at  arm's-length,  with  a 
playful  bet  of  ten  to  one  that  he  could  stand  by 
the  fire-place  and  pitch  the  said  Samuel  Dolly 
out  of  the  open  window.     To  know  so  strong  a 
man,  so  fine  an  animal,  was  something  to  boast 
of!     Then,  too,  if  Jasper  had  a  false  brilliancy, 
he  had  also  a  false  bonliommie ;  it  was  true  that 
he  was  somewhat  imperious,  swaggering,  bully- 
ing— but  he  was  also  oft-hand  and  jocund  ;  and 
as  you  knew  him,  that  sidelong  look,  that  defy- 
ing gait  (look  and  gait  of  the  man  whom^  the 
world  cuts),  wore  away.     In  fact,   he  had  got 
into  a  world  which  did  not  cut  him,  and  his  ex- 
terior was  improved  by  the  atmosphere. 

Mr.  Losely  professed  to  dislike  general  soci- 
ety. Drawing-rooms  were  insipid  ;  clubs  full  of 
old  fogies.  "  I  am  for  life,  my  boys,"  said  Mr. 
Losely : 

"  'Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  f^ow, 
Or  pain  from  Beauty's  eye  '('  " 

]\Ir.  Losely,  therefore,  liis  hat  on  one  side, 
lounged  into  the  saloons  of  theatres,  accompa- 
nied by  a  cohort  of  juvenile  admirers,  their  hats 
on  one  side  also,  and  returned  to  the  plea.sant- 
est  little  suppers  in  his  own  apartment.  There 
"  the  goblet"  flowed — and  after  the  goblet,  cigars 
for  some,  and  a  rubber  for  all. 

•  So  puissant  Losely's  vitality,  and  so  blessed 
by  the  stars  his  lack,  that  his  form  seemed  to 
wax  stronger  and  his  purse  fuller  by  this  "life." 
No  wonder  he  was  all  for  a  life  of  that  kind ; 
but  the  slight  beings  who  tried  to  keep  up  with 


106 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


him  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  poorer  and 
poorer ;  a  few  weeks  made  their  cheeks  spectral 
and  their  pockets  a  dismal  void.  Then  as  some 
dropped  off  from  sheer  inanition,  others  whom 
they  had  decoyed  by  their  praises  of  "  Life"  and 
its  hero,  came  into  the  magic  circle  to  fade  and 
vanish  in  their  turn. 

In  a  space  of  time  incredibly  brief  not  a 
whist-player  was  left  upon  the  field ;  the  victo- 
rious Losely  had  trumped  out  the  last !  Some 
few,  whom  Nature  had  endowed  more  liberally 
than  Fortune,  still  retained  strength  enougli  to 
sup — if  asked  ; 

"  But  none  wlio  came  to  sup  remained  to  play." 

"Plague  on  it,"  said  Losely  to  Poole,  as  one 
afternoon  they  were  dividing  the  final  spoils. 
"  Your  friends  are  mightily  soon  cleaned  out ; 
could  not  even  get  up  double  dummy,  last  night ; 
and  we  must  hit  on  some  new  plan  for  replen- 
ishing the  coffers !  You  have  rich  relations ; 
can't  I  help  you  to  make  them  more  useful  ?" 

Said  Dolly  Poole,  who  was  looking  exceed- 
ingly bilious,  and  had  become  a  martyr  to 
chronic  headache,  "My  relations  are  prigs! 
Some  of  them  give  me  the  cold  shoulder,  oth- 
ers— a  great  deal  of  jaw.  But  as  for  tin,  I 
might  as  well  scrape  a  flint  for  it.  My  uncle 
Sam  is  more  anxious  about  my  sins  than  the 
other  codgers,  because  he  is  my  godfather,  and 
responsible  for  my  sins,  I  suppose  ;  and  he  says 
he  will  put  me  in  the  way  of  being  respectable. 
My  head's  splitting — " 

"  Wood  does  split  till  it  is  seasoned,"  answer- 
ed Losely.  "Good  fellow,  uncle  Sam!  He'll 
put  you  in  tlie  way  of  tin  ;  nothing  else  makes 
a  man  respectable." 

"Yes — so  he  says;  a  girl  with  money — " 

"  A  wife — tin  canister  !  Ititroduce  me  to  her, 
and  she  shall  be  tied  to  you." 

Samuel  Dolly  did  not  appear  to  relish  the 
idea  of  such  an  introduction.  "  I  have  not  been 
introduced  to  her  myself,"  said  he.  "But  if 
you  advise  me  to  be  spliced,  why  don't  you  get 
spliced  yourself?  a  handsome  fellow  like  you 
can  be  at  no  loss  for  an  heiress." 

"Heiresses  are  the  most  horrid  cheats  in  the 
world,"  said  Losely :  "  there  is  always  some  fa- 
ther, or  uncle,  or  fusty  Lord  Chancellor  whose 
consent  is  essential,  and  not  to  be  had.  Heir- 
esses in  scores  have  been  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  me.  Before  I  left  Paris,  I  sold  their 
locks  of  hair  to  a  wig-maker — three  great  trunks- 
ful.  Honor  bright.  But  there  ^ycre  only  two 
whom  I  could  have  safely  allowed  to  run  away 
with  me ;  and  they  were  so  closely  watchccl, 
poor  things,  that  I  was  forced  to  leave  them  to 
their  fate — early  graves !  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
heiresses,  Dolly,  I  have  been  the  victim  of  heir- 
esses. But  a  rich  widow  is  an  estimable  creat- 
ure.' Against  widows,  if  rich,  I  have  not  a  word 
to  say ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there  is  a  widow 
whom  I  suspect  I  have  fascinated,  and  whose 
connection  I  have  a  particular  private  reason  for 
deeming  desirable !  She  has  a  whelp  of  a  son, 
who  is  a  spoke  in  my  wheel — were  I  his  father- 
in-law,  would  not  I  be  a  spoke  in  his  ?  I'd  teach 
the  boy  '  /;/e,'  Dolly."  Here  all  trace  of  beauty 
vanished  from  Jasper's  face,  and  Poole,  staring 
at  him,  pushed  away  his  chair.  "  But" — con- 
tinued Losely,  regaining  his  more  usual  expres- 
sion of  levity  and  boldness — "  But  I  am  not  yet 
quite  sure  what  the  widow  has,  besides  her  son, 


in  her  own  possession ;  we  shall  see.  Mean- 
while, is  there — no  chance  of  a  rubber  to-night?" 

"  None ;  unless  you  will  let  Brown  and  Smith 
play  upon  tick." 

"Pooh  !  but  there's  Robinson,  he  has  an  aunt 
he  can  borrow  from  ?" 

"  Robinson !  spitting  blood,  with  an  attack  of 
delirium  tremens! — you  have  done  for  him." 

"Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  flow?"  said  Lose- 
ly. "  Well,  I  suppose  it  can — when  a  man  has 
no  coats  to  his  stomach ;  but  you  and  I,  Dolly 
Poole,  have  stomachs  thick  as  pea-jackets,  and 
proof  as  gutta  percha." 

Poole  forced  a  ghastly  smile,  while  Losely, 
gayly  springing  up,  swept  his  share  of  booty  into 
his  pockets,  slapped  his  comrade  on  the  back, 
and  said — "Then,  if  the  mountain  will  not  come 
to  Mohammed,  Mohammed  must  go  to  the  mount- 
ain! Hang  whist,  and  up  with  ?w/^e-e/-«ow-.'  I 
have  an  infallible  method  of  winning — only,  it 
requires  capital.  You  will  club  your  cash  with 
mine,  and  I'll  play  for  both.  Sup  here  to-night, 
and  we'll  go  to  the hell  afterward." 

Samuel  Dolly  had  the  most  perfect  confidence 
in  his  friend's  science  in  the  art  of  gambling, 
and  he  did  not,  therefore,  dissent  from  the  pro- 
posal made,  jasper  gave  a  fresh  touch  to  his 
toilet,  and  stepped  into  his  cabriolet.  Poole 
cast  on  him  a  look  of  envy,  and  crawled  to  his 
lodging — too  ill  for  his  desk,  and  with  a  strong 
desire  to  take  to  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  X. 

'  la  there  a  heart  that  Dever  loved 
Nor  felt  soft  woman's  sigh  1" 


If  there  be  such  a  heart,  it  is  not  in  the  breast  of  a  Pock- 
et-Cannibal. Your  true  Man-eater  is  usually  of  an 
amorous  temperament:  he  can  be  indeed  sufficiently 
fond  of  a  lady  to  eat  her  up.  Jlr.  Losely  makes  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  widow.  For  farther  jiarticulars  inquire 
within. 

The  dignified  serenity  of  Gloucester  Place, 
Portman  Square,  is  agitated  by  the  intrusion  of 
a  new  inhabitant.  A  house  in  that  faA'ored  lo- 
cality, which  had  for  several  months  maintained 
"the  solemn  stillness  and  the  dread  rejjose" 
which  appertaiir  to  dwellings  that  are  to  be  let 
upon  lease,  unfurnished,  suddenly  started  into 
that  exuberant  and  aggressive  life  which  irri- 
tates the  nerves  of  its  peaceful  neighbors.  The 
bills  have  been  removed  from  the  windows — the 
walls  have  been  cleaned  down  and  pointed — the 
street-door  repainted  a  lively  green — workmen 
have  gone  in  and  out.  The  observant  ladies 
(single  ones)  in  the  house  opposite,  discover,  by 
the  help  of  a  telescope,  that  the  drawing-rooms 
have  been  new  papered,  canary-colored  grotind 
— festoon  borders,  and  that  the  mouldings  of  the 
shutters  have  been  gilt.  Gilt  shutters !  that  looks 
ominous  of  an  ostentatious  and  party-giving  ten- 
ant. !l 

Then  carts  full  of  furniture  have  stopped  at 
the  door — carjicts,  tables,  chairs,  beds,  wardrobes 
• — all  seemingly  new,  and  in  no  inelegant  taste, 
have  been  disgorged  into  the  hall.  It  has  been 
noticed,  too,  that  every  day  a  lady  of  slight  fig- 
ure and  genteel  habiliments  has  come,  seeming- 
ly to  inspect  progress — evidently  the  new  ten- 
ant. Sometimes  she  comes  alone ;  sometimes 
with  a  dark-eyed  handsome  lad,  probably  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


107 


son.  Who  can  she  be  ?  what  is  she  ?  what  is  her 
name  ?  her  history  ?  has  she  a  right  to  settle  in 
Gloncester  Place,"  Portman  Square  ?  The  de- 
tective police  of  London  is  not  peculiarly  vigi- 
lant ;  but  its  defects  are  supplied  by  the  volun- 
tary efforts  of  unmarried  ladies.  The  new- 
coiiier  was  a  widow ;  her  husband  had  been  in 


suddenly  blushes  and  draws  in  her  head.  Too 
late  I  the  cabriolet  has  stopped — a  gentleman 
leans  fonvard,  takes  oft"  his  hat,  bows  respectful- 
ly. "Dear,  dear!"  murmurs  Mrs.  Haughton, 
"  I  do  think  he  is  going  to  call ;  some  people  are 
born  to  be  tempted — my  temptations  have  been 
immense  I     He  is  getting  out — he  knocks  —  I 


the  armv ;  of  good  family  ;  but  a  mauvais  svjet ;  can't  say,  now,  that  I  am  not  at  home — very 
she  had  been  left  in  straitened  circumstances  !  awkward  I  I  wish  Lionel  were  here  I  What 
with  an  only  son.  It  was  supposed  that  she  {  does  he  mean — neglecting  his  own  mother,  and 
had  unexpectedly  come  into  a  fortune — on  the  ;  leaving  her  a  prey  to  tempters?" 
strength  of  which  she  had  removed  from  Pim-  While  the  footman  is  responding  to  the  smart 
lico  into  Gloucester  Place.  At  length  —  the  knock  of  the  visitor,  we  will  explain  how  Mrs. 
preparations  completed — one  Monday  afternoon  Haughton  had  incuiTcd  that  gentleman's  ac- 
the  widow,  accompanied  by  her  son,  came  to  quaintance.  Inoneofherwalkstoher  newhouse 
settle.  The  next  day  a  footman  in  genteel  liv-  '  while  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  decorators,  her 
ery  (brown  and  orange)  appeared  at  the  door,  j  mind  being  much  absorbed  in  the  consideration 
Then,  for  the  rest  of  the  week,  the  baker  and  .  whether  her  drawing-room  curtains  should  be 
butcher  called  regularly.  On  the  following  Sun-  chintz  or  tabouret — ^just  as  she  was  crossing  the 
day  the  ladv  and  her  son  appeared  at  church.  street,  she  was  all  but  run  over  by  a  gentleman's 
No  reader  will  be  at  a  loss  to  discover  in  the  '  cabriolet.  The  horse  was  hard-mouthed,  going 
new  tenant  of  Xo.  —  Gloucester  Place,  the  wid-  }  at  full  speed.  The  driver  pulled  up  just  in  time  ; 
owed  mother  of  Lionel  Haughton.  The  letter  j  but  the  wheel  grazed  her  dress,  and  though  she 
for  that  lady  which  Darrell  had  intrusted  to  his  ran  back  instinctively,  yet,  when  she  was  safe 
voung  cousin,  had,  in  complimentary  and  cor-  I  on  the  pavement,  the  fright  overpowered  her 
dial  language,  claimed  the  right  to  provide  for  I  nenes,  and  she  clung  to  the  street-post  almost 
her  comfortable  and  honorable  subsistence  ;  and  ,  fainting.      Two  or  three  passers-by  humanely 


announced  that,  henceforth,  £800  a  year  would 
be  placed  quarterly  to  her  account  at  Mr.  Dar- 
rell's  banker,  and  that  an  additional  sum  of 
£1200  was  already  there  deposited  in  her  name, 
in  order  to  enable  her  to  furnish  any  residence 
to  which   she   might  be   inclined  to   remove. 


gathered  round  her;  and  the  driver,  looking 
back,  and  muttering  to  himself — "Not  bad  look- 
ing— neatly  dressed — lady-like — French  shawl 
—  mav  have  tin — worth  while,  perhaps  I"  gal- 
lantly descended  and  hastened  to  offer  ajjolo- 
gies,  with  a  respectful  hope  that  she  was  not  in- 
Mrs.  Haughton,    therewith,    had    removed    to  Ijured. 

GloucesterPlace.  j      Mrs.  Haughton  answered  somewhat  tartly,  but 

She  is  seated  by  the  window  in  her  front  being  one  of  those  good-hearted  women  who, 
drawing-room — sur^'eying  with  proud  though  j  apt  to  be  rude,  are  extremely  sorry  for  it  the 
grateful  heart  the  elegancies  by  which  she  is  i  moment  afterward,  she  wished  to  repair  any 
surrounded.  A  very  winning  "countenance —  i  hurt  to  his  feelings  occasioned  by  her  first  im- 
lively  eves,  that  in  'themselves  may  be  over-  {  pulse ;  and,  when,  renemng  his  excuses,  he  of- 
quick  and  petulant,  but  their  expression  is  j  fered  his  arm  over  the  crossing,  she  did  not  like 
chastened  by  a  gentle  kindly  mouth ;  and  over  to  refuse.  On  gaining  the  side  of  the  way  on 
the  whole  face,  the  attitude',  the  air,  even  the  which  her  house  was  situated,  she  had  recover- 
dress  itself,  is  diffused  the  unmistakable  sim-  ed  suflaciently  to  blush  for  having  accepted  such 
plicitv  of  a  sincere,  natural  character.  No  |  familiar  assistance  from  a  perfect  stranger,  and 
doubt  Mrs.  Haughton  has  her  tempers,  and  her  i  somewhat  to  falter  in  returning  thanks  for  his 
vanities,  and  her  little  harmless  feminine  weak-  |  pohtenes 


nesses;  but  you  could  not  help  feeling  in  her 
presence  that  you  were  with  an  affectionate, 
warm-hearted,  honest,  good  woman.  She  might 
not  have  the  refinements  of  tone  and  manner 
which  stamp  the  high-bred  gentlewoman  of  con 


Our  gentleman,  whose  estimate  of  his  attrac- 
tions was  not  humble,  ascribed  the  blushing 
cheek  and  faltering  voice  to  the  natural  effect 
produced  by  his  appearance ;  and  he  himself 
admiring  verv  much  a  handsome  bracelet  on  her 


vention ;  she  might  e^•ince  the  deficiencies  of  wrist,  which  he  deemed  a  favorable  prognostic 
an  imperfect  third-rate  education;  but  she  was  of  "tin,"  he  watched  her  to  her  door,  and  sent 
saved  from  vulgarity  by  a  certain  undefinable  i  his  groom  in  the  course  of  the  evening  to  make 
grace  of  person  and' music  of  voice — even  when  discreet  inquiries  in  the  neighborhood.  The  re- 
she  said  or  did  things  that  well-bred  people  do  suit  of  the  inquiries  induced  him  to  resolve  upon 
not  say  or  do;  and  there  was  an  engaging  in-  prosecuting  the  acquaintance  thus  begun.  He 
telligence  in  those  quick  hazel  eyes  that  made  contrived    to   learn   the   hours   at  which  ilrs. 


you  sure  that  she  was  sensible,  even  when  she 
uttered  what  was  silly. 

Mrs.  Haughton  turned  from  the  interior  of 


Haughton  usually  visited  the  house,  and  to  pass 
bv  Gloucester  Place  at  the  verj-  nick  of  time, 
liis  bow  was  recognizing,  respectful,  interroga- 


the  room  to  the  open  window.  She  is  on  the  '  tive — a  bow  that  asked  "how  much  farther?" 
look-out  for  her  son,  who  has  gone  to  call  on  |  But  Mrs.  Haughton 's  bow  respondent  seemed 
Colonel  Morley,  and  who  ought  to  be  returned  to  declare  "  not  at  all !"  The  stranger  did  not 
by  this  time.  She  begins  to  get  a  little  fidgety  adventure  more  that  day ;  but  a  day  or  nvo  after- 
— somewhat  cross.  While  thus  standing  and  i  ward  he  came  again  into  Gloucester  Place  on 
thus  watchful,  there  comes  thundering  down  the  i  foot.  On  that  occasion  Mrs.  Haughton  was 
street  a  high-stepping  horse — bay,  with  white  i  with  her  son,  and  the  gentleman  would  not  seem 
legs — it  whirls  on  a  cabriolet — blue,  with  ver-  to  perceive  her.  The  next  day  he  returned,  she 
mTlion  wheels — two  hands,  in  yellow  kid  gloves,  was  then  alone,  and  just  as  she  gained  her  door 
are  just  seen  under  the  hood.'  Mrs.  Haughton  1  he  advanced — '•!  beg  you  ten  thousand  par- 


108 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


dons,  madam ;  but  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  I 
have  the  honor  to  address  ili-s.  Charles  Haugh- 
ton !" 

The  lady  bowed  in  surprise. 
"Ah,  madam,  your  lamented  husband  was 
one  of  my  most  particular  friends." 

"You  don't  say  sol"  cried  Mrs.  Haughton, 
and  looking  more  attentively  at  the  stranger. 
There  was  in  his  dress  and  appearance  some- 
thing that  she  thought  very  stylish — a  particular 
friend  of  Charles  Haiighton's  was  sure  to  be 
stylish — to  be  a  man  of  the  first  water.  And 
she  loved  the  poor  Captain's  memorv- — her  heart 
warmed  to  any  "  particular  friend  of  his." 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  gentleman,  noting  the 
advantage  he  had  gained,  "though  I  was  con- 
siderably his  junior,  we  were  great  cronies — ex- 
cuse that  familiar  expression — in  the  Hussars 
together — " 

''The  Captain  was  not  in  the  Hussars,  Sir; 
he  was  in  the  Guards." 

'•  Of  course  he  was ;  but  I  was  saying  in  the 
Hussars,  together  with  the  Guards,  there  were 
some  very  fine  fellows — very  fine — he  was  one 
of  them.  I  could  not  resist  paying  my  respects 
to  the  widowed  lady  of  so  fine  a  fellow.  I  know 
it  is  a  liberty,  ma'am,  but  'tis  my  way.  People 
who  know  me  well — and  I  have  a  large  acquaint- 
ance— are  kind  enough  to  excuse  my  way.  And 
to  think  that  villainous  horse,  which  I  had  just 
bought  out  of  Lord  Bolton's  stud — (200  guineas, 
ma'am,  and  cheap) — should  have  nearly  taken 
the  life  of  Charles  Haughton's  lovely  relict.  If 
any  body  else  had  been  driving  that  brute,  I 
shudder  to  think  what  might  have  been  the  con- 
sequences ;  but  I  have  a  wrist  of  iron.  Strength 
is  a  vulgar  qualification — very  ^Tilgar — but  when 
it  saves  a  lady  from  perishing,  how  can  one  be 
ashamed  of  it  ?  But  I  am  detaining  you.  Your 
own  house,  ^Irs.  Haughton?" 

"Yes,  Sir,  I  have  just  taken  it,  but  the  work- 
men have  not  finished.  I  am  not  yet  settled 
here." 

"  Charming  situation !  ^My  friend  left  a  son, 
I  believe  ?     In  the  army  already  ?" 

"No,  Sir;  but  he  wishes  it  very  much." 

"  Mr.  Darrell,  I  think,  could  gratify  that  wish." 

"What !  you  know  Mr.  Danell,  that  most  ex- 
cellent, generous  man  ?    All  we  have  we  owe  to  ' 
him."  i 

The  gentleman  abruptly  turned  aside — wisely  ' 
— for  his  expression  of  face  at  that  praise  might 
have  startled  Mrs.  Haughton.  ' 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  once.     He  has  had  many  ' 
a  fee  out  of  my  family.     Goodish  lawyer — clev- 
erish  man — and  rich  as  a  Jew.     I  should  like  to  ' 
see  my  old  friend's  son,  ma'am.     He  must  be 
monstrous  handsome  with  such  parents  I"  I 

"Oh,  Sir,  very  like  his  father.  I  shall  be' 
proud  to  present  him  to  you."  i 

'•Ma'am,  I  thank  you.  I  will  have  the  honor  ; 
to  call — "  I 

And  thus  is  explained  how  Jasper  Losely  has  I 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Haughton's  door — has  walked  ; 
up  her  stairs — has  seated  himself  in  her  draw-  ' 
ing-room,  and  is  now  edging  his  chair  some-  ' 
what  nearer  to  her,  and  throwing  into  his  voice  ' 
and  looks  a  degree  of  admiration,  which  has  ! 
been  sincerely  kindled  by  the  aspect  of  her  ele- 
gant apartments. 

Jessica  Haughton  was  not  one  of  tliose  wo- 
men, if  such  there  be,  who  do  not  know  when  a 


gentleman  is  making  up  to  them.  She  knew 
perfectly  well,  that,  with  a  very  little  encourage- 
j  ment,  her  visitor  would  declare  himself  a  suitor. 
I  Nor,  to  speak  truth,  was  she  quite  insensible  to 
,  his  handsome  person,  nor  quite  unmoved  by  his 
I  flatteries.  She  had  her  weak  points,  and  vanity 
'  was  one  of  them.  Nor  conceived  she,  poor  lady, 
'  the  slightest  suspicion  that  Jasper  Losely  was  not 
j  a  personage  whose  attentions  might  flatter  any 
j  woman.  Though  he  had  not  even  announced 
a  name,  but,  pushing  aside  the  footman,  had 
sauntered  in  with  as  familiar  an  ease  as  if  he 
i  had  been  a  first  cousin :  though  he  had  not  ut- 
tered a  syllable  that  could  define  his  station,  or 
I  attest  his  boasted  friendship  with  the  dear  de- 
j  funct,  still  Mrs.  Haughton  implicitly  believed 
j  that  she  was  with  one  of  those  gay  Chiefs  of  Ton 
■  who  had  glittered  round  her  Charlie  in  the  ear- 
lier morning  of  his  life,  ere  he  had  sold  out  of 
!  the  Guards,  and  brought  himself  out  of  jail ;  a 
I  lord,  or  an  honorable  at  least,  and  was  even  (I 
i  shudder  to  say)  revolving  in  her  mind  whether 
j  it  might  not  be  an  excellent  thing  for  her  dear 
I  Lionel  if  she  could  prevail  on  herself  to  procure 
I  for  him  the  prop  and  guidance  of  a  distinguish- 
:  ed  and  brilliant  father-in-law — ricli,  noble,  evi- 
I  dently  good-natured,  sensible,  attractive.  Oh  I 
'  but  the  temptation  was  growing  more  and  more 
'  IMMENSE  !  when  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and 
^  in  sprang  Lionel,  ciying  out,  "  Mother,  dear,  the 
t  Colonel  has  come  with  me  on  pui-pose  to — " 

He  stopped  short,  staring  hard  at  Jasper  Lose- 
ly. That  gentleman  advanced  a  few  steps,  ex- 
tending his  hand,  but  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  on 
I  seeing  Colonel  Morley's  figure  now  filling  up  the 
door-way.  Not  that  he  feared  recognition — the 
I  Colonel  did  not  know  him  by  sight,  but  he  knew 
by  sight  the  Colonel.  In  his  own  younger  day, 
when  lolling  over  the  r^ils  of  Eotten  Row,  he  had 
enviously  noted  the  leaders  of  fashion  pass  bv, 
and  Colonel  Morley  had  not  escaped  his  ob- 
servation. Colonel  ilorley,  indeed,  was  one  of 
those  men  who  by  name  and  repute  are  sure  to 
be  known  to  all  who,  like  Jasper  Losely  in  his 
youth,  would  fain  know  something  about  that 
gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  world  which, 
like  the  sun,  either  vivifies  or  corrupts,  accord- 
ing to  the  properties  of  the  object  on  which  it 
shines.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  the  mere  sight 
of  the  real  fine  gentleman  that  made  the  mock 
fine  gentleman  shrink  and  collapse.  Though 
Jasper  Losely  knew  himself  to  be  still  called  a 
magnificent  man — one  of  royal  Nature's  Life- 
guardsmen — though  confident  that  from  top  to 
toe  his  habiliments  could  defy  the  criticism  of 
the  strictest  martinet  in  polite  costume,  no  soon- 
er did  that  figure — by  no  means  handsome,  and 
clad  in  garments  innocent  of  buckram,  but  guil- 
ty of  wTinkles — appear  on  the  threshold  than 
Jasper  Losely  felt  small  and  shabby,  as  if  he 
had  been  suddenly  reduced  to  five  feet  two,  and 
had  bought  his  coat  out  of  an  old  clothesman's 
bag. 

Without  appearing  even  to  see  Mr.  Losely, 
the  Colonel,  in  his  turn,  as  he  glided  past  him 
toward  Mrs.  Haughton,  had,  with  what  is  pro- 
verbially called  the  corner  of  the  eye,  taken  the 
whole  of  that  impostor's  superb  personnel  into 
calm  survey,  had  read  him  through  and  through, 
and  decided  on  these  two  points  without  the 
slightest  hesitation — '•  a  lady-killer  and  a  sharp- 
er." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


109 


Quick  as  breathing  had  been  the  effect  thus  j 
severally  produced  on  Mrs.  Haughton's  visitors, 
which  it  has  cost  so  many  words  to  describe,  so 
quick  that  the  Colonel, "without  anv  apparent 
pause  of  dialogue,  has  already  taken  up  the  sen- 
tence Lionel  Icfi  uncompleted,  and  says,  as  he 
bows  over  Mrs.  Haughton's  hand,  "  Come  on  pur- 
pose to  claim  acquaintance  with  an  old  friend's 
widow,  a  young  friend's  mother." 

Mks.  IIacghton.  "  I  am  sure,  Colonel  Mor- 
ley,  I  am  very  much  flattered.  And  you,  too, 
knew  the  poor  dear  Captain  ;  'tis  so  pleasant  to 
think  that  his  old  friends  come  round  us  now. 
This  sentleman,  also,  was  a  particular  friend  of 
dear  Charles's." 

The  Colonel  had  somewhat  small  eyes,  which 
moved  with  habitual  slowness.  He  lifted  those 
eyes,  let  them  drop  upon  Jasper  (who  still  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  one  hand  still 
half-extended  toward  Lionel),  and  letting  the 
eyes  rest  there  while  he  spoke,  repeated, 
'  -'Particular  friend  of  Charles  Haughton's  — 
the  onlv  one  of  his  particular  friends  whom  I 
never  had  the  honor  to  see  before." 

Jasper  who,  whatever  his  deficiency  in  other 
virtues,  certainly  did  not  lack  courage,  made  a 
strong  effort  at  self-possession,  and  without  re- 
plving  to  the  Colonel,  whose  remark  had  not 
been  directly  addiessed  to  himself,  said,  in  his 
most  rollicking  tone  —  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Haughton, 
Charles  was  my  particular  friend,  but" — lifting 
his  eve-glass — "bufthis  gentleman  was,"  drop- 
ping the  eye-glass  negligently,  '•  not  in  our  set, 
I  supjiose."  Then  advancing  to  Lionel,  and 
seizini:  his  hand,  '"I  must  introduce  myself — the 
image  of  your  father,  I  declare !  I  was  saying  to 
Mrs^  Haughton  how  much  I  should  like  to  see 
vou — proposing  to  her,  just  as  you  came  in,  that 
we  should  go  to  the  play  together.  Oh,  ma'am, 
Tou  may  trust  him  to  me  safely.  Young  men 
should  see  life."  Here  Jasper  tipped  Lionel 
one  of  those  knowing  winks  with  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  delight  and  insnare  the  young 


""What,  Lionel?"  asked  the  Colonel,  blandly 
— "was  what?" 
"  Snobbish,  Sir." 

'•Lionel,  how  dare  you!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Haughton.  '•  What  vulgar  words  boys  do  juck 
up  at  school.  Colonel  Morleyl" 

"We  must  be  careful  that  they  do  not  pick  up 
worse  than  words  when  they  leave  school,  my 
dear  madam.  You  will  forgive  me,  but  Mr. 
Darrell  has  so  expressly — of  course,  with  your 
permission — commended  this  young  gentleman 
to  my  responsible  care  and  guidance — so  openly 
confided  to  me  his  views  and  intentions,  that 
perhaps  you  would  do  me  the  verj-  great  favor 
not  to  force  upon  him,  against  his  own  wishes, 
the  acquaintance  of — that  veiy  good-looking 
person." 

ilrs.  Haughton  pouted,  but  kept  down  her  ris- 
ing temper.     The  Colonel  began  to  awe  her. 

"  By-the-by,"  continued  the  man  of  the  world, 
"  may  I  inquire  the  name  of  my  old  friend's  par- 
ticular friend?" 

"His  name — upon  my  word  I  really  don't 
know  it.  Perhaps  he  left  his  card — ring  the 
bell,  Lionel." 

"You  don't  know  his  name,  yet  you  know 
?tiin,  ma'am,  and  would  allow  your  son  to  see 
LIFE  under  his  auspices  I  I  beg  you  ten  thou- 
sand pardons ;  but  even  ladies  the  most  cau- 
tious, mothers  the  most  watchful,  are  exposed 
to — " 

"  Immense  temptations — that  is — to — to — " 

"  I  understand  perfectly,  my  dear  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton." 

The  footman  appeared.  "Did  that  gentle- 
man leave  a  card?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Did  not  vou  ask  his  name  when  he  enter- 
ed?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but  he  said  he  would  announce 
himself." 

When  the  footman  had  withdrawn,  Mrs. 
Haughton  exclaimed,  piteously,  "  I  have  been 


friends  of  Mr.  Poole,  and  hurried  on  :  "  But  in    to  blame,  Colonel  —  I  see  it.     But  Lionel  will 


an  innocent  way,  ma'am,  such  as  mothers  would 
approve.  We'll  fix  an  evening  for  it,  when  I 
have  the  honor  to  call  again.  Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Haughton.  Your  hand  again,  Sir  (to  Li- 
onel).— Ah,  we  shall  be  great  friends,  I  guess ! 
You  must  let  me  take  you  out  in  my  cab — teach 
you  to  handle  the  ribbons,  eh?  'Gad  my  old 
friend  Charles  tf as  a  whip,  Hal  hal  Good- 
day,  good-day  I" 

Not  a  muscle  had  moved  in  the  Colonel's  face 
during  Mr.  Losely's  jovial  monologue.  But  when 
Jasper  had  bowed  himself  out,  Mrs.  Haughton 
courtesving  and  ringing  the  bell  for  the  footman 

to  open  the  street-door,  the  man  of  the  world  my  passport  to  your  confidence,  Mrs.  Haughton. 
(and,  as  man  of  the  world.  Colonel  Morley  was  Charles  was  my  old  school-fellow  — a  little  boy 
consummate)  again  raised  those  small,  slow  eyes  when  I  and  Darrell  were  in  the  sixth  form  :  and 
—this  time  toward  her  face— and  dropped  the  pardon  me  if  I  add  that  if  that  gentleman  were 
^■oj-ds ever  Charles  Haughton's  particular  frieud.  he 

"  My  old  friend's  particular  friend  is — not    could  scarcely  have  been  a  ven,-  wise  one.    For, 
bad-iooking,  Mrs.  Haughton!"  unless  his  appearance  greatly  belie  his  yera-s,  he 

"And  so  livelv  and  pleasant,"  returned  Mrs.    must  have  been  little  more  than  a  bov  when 
Haughton.  with  a  slight  rise  of  color,  but  no  oth-  ;  Charles  Haughton  left  Lionel  fatherless." 


tell  you  how  I  came  to  know  the  gentleman — 
the  gentleman  who  nearly  run  over  me.  Lionel, 
and  then  spoke  so  kindly  about  your  dear  fa- 
ther." 

"Oh,  that  is  the  person!  I  supposed  so," 
cried  Lionel,  kissing  his  mother,  who  was  in- 
clined to  burst  into  tears.  "  I  can  explain  it 
all  now.  Colonel  ^lorley.  Any  one  who  says  a 
kind  word  about  my  father  warms  my  mother's 
heart  to  him  at  once.  Is  it  not  so,  mother 
dear  ?" 

"And  long  be  it  so,"  said  Colonel  Morley, 
with  graceful  earnestness;  "and  may  such  be 


Here,  in  the  delic.icy  of  tact,  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Haughton  looked  ashamed  of  the  subject,  and 
seemed  aware  of  her  imprudence,  the  Colonel 


er  sign  of  embarrassment.     "It  may  be  a  nice 
acquaintance  for  Lionel." 

"Mother!"  cried  that  ungrateful  boy,  "you    

are  not  speaking  seriouslv.  I  think  the  man  is  rose,  with  a  request — cheerfully  granted —  that 
odious.  If  he  were  not  my  father's  friend,  I  Lionel  might  be  allowed  to  come  to  breakfast 
should  sav  he  was — "  '  i  with  him  the  next  morning. 


110 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  man  of  the  world,  having  accepted  a  troublesome 
charge,  considers  "  what  he  will  do  with  it;""  and  hav- 
ing promptlj-  decided,  is  sure,  first,  that  he  could  not 
have  done  better;  and,  secondly,  that  much  may  be 
said  to  prove  that  he  could  not  have  done  worse. 

Reserving  to  a  later  occasion  anj  more  de- 
tailed description  of  Colonel  Morley,  it  suffices 
for  the  present  to  say  that  he  was  a  man  of  a 
very  fine  understanding,  as  applied  to  the  spe- 
cial world  in  which  he  lived.  Thongh  no  one 
had  a  more  numerous  circle  of  friends,  and 
though  with  many  of  those  friends  he  was  on 
that  footing  of  familiar  intimacy  which  Dar- 
rell's  active  career  once,  and  his  rigid  seclusion 
of  late,  could  not  have  established  with  anv 
idle  denizen  of  that  brilliant  society  in  which 
Colonel  Morley  moved  and  had  his  being,  yet 
to  Alban  Morley's  heart  (a  heart  not  easily 
reached)  no  friend  was  so  dear  as  Guy  Darrell. 
They  had  entered  'Eton  on  the  same  day  — 
left  it  the  same  daj" — lodged  while  there  in  the 
same  house  ;  and  thongh  of  very  different  char- 
acters, formed  one  of  those  strong,  imperish- 
able, brotherly  affections  which  the  Fates  weave 
into  the  ver'v  woof  of  existence. 

Dan'ell's  recommendation  would  have  secured 
to  any  young  protege  Colonel  Morley's  gracious 
welcome  and  invaluable  advice.  But  both  as 
Darrell's  acknowledged  kinsman  and  as  Charles 
Haughton's  son,  Lionel  called  forth  his  kindli- 
est sentiments,  and  obtained  his  most  sagacious 
deliberations.  He  had  already  seen  the  boy  sev- 
eral times  before  waiting  on  Mrs.  Haughton, 
deeming  it  would  please  her  to  defer  his  visit 
until  she  could  receive  him  in  all  the  glories 
of  Gloucester  Place  ;  and  he  had  taken  Lionel 
into  high  favor,  and  deemed  him  worthy  of  a 
conspicuous  place  in  the  world.  Though  Dar- 
rell, in  his  letter  to  Colonel  ilorley,  had  em- 
phatically distinguished  the  position  of  Lionel, 
as  a  favored  kinsman,  from  that  of  a  presump- 
tive or  even  a  probable  heir,  yet  the  rich  man 
had  also  added — '"But  I  wish  him  to  take  rank 
as  the  representative  to  the  Haughtons  ;  and, 
whatever  I  may  do  with  tlie  bulk  of  my  fortune, 
I  shall  insure  to  him  a  liberal  independence. 
The  completion  of  his  education,  the  adequate 
allowance  to  him,  the  choice  of  a  profession, 
are  matters  in  which  I  entreat  you  to  act  for 
yourself,  as  if  you  were  his  guardian.  I  am 
leaving  England — I  may  be  abroad  for  years." 
Colonel  Morley,  in  accepting  the  responsibilities 
thus  pressed  on  him,  brought  to  bear  upon  his 
charge  subtle  discrimination  as  well  as  consci- 
entious anxiety. 

He  saw  that  Lionel's  heart  was  set  upon  the 
military  profession,  and  that  his  power  of  appli- 
cation seemed  lukewarm  and  desultory  when 
not  cheered  and  concentred  by  enthusiasm,  and 
would,  therefore,  fail  him  if  directed  to  studies 
which  had  no  immediate  reference  to  the  ob- 
jects of  his  ambition.  The  Colonel  according- 
ly dismissed  tlie  idea  of  sending  him  for  three 
years  to  a  University.  Alban  Jlorley  summed 
up  his  theories  on  the  collegiate  ordeal  in  these 
succinct  aphorisms:  '"Nothing  so  good  as  a 
University  education,  nor  worse  than  a  Uni- 
versity without  its  education.  Better  throw  a 
youth  at  once  into  the  wider  sphere  of  a  capital, 
provided  you  there  secure  to  his  social  life  the 
ordinary  checks  of  good  company,  the  restraints 


imposed  by  the  presence  of  decorous  women, 
and  men  of  grave  years  and  dignified  repute, 
than  confine  him  to  the  exclusive  society  of 
youths  of  his  own  age  —  tlic  age  of  wild  spirits 
and  unreflecting  imitation  —  unless  he  cling  to 
the  safeguard  which  is  found  in  hard  reading, 
less  by  the  book-knowledge  it  bestows  than  by 
the  serious  and  preoccupied  mind  which  it  ab- 
stracts from  tlie  coarser  temptations." 

But  Lionel,  younger  in  character  than  in 
years,  was  too  boyish  as  yet  to  be  safely  con- 
signed to  those  trials  of  tact  and  temper  which 
await  the  neophyte  who  enters  on  life  through 
the  doors  of  a  mess-room.  His  pride  was  too 
morbid — too  much  on  the  alert  for  oftense ;  his 
frankness  too  crude,  his  spirit  too  untamed  by 
the  insensible  diseipHne  of  social  commerce. 

Qitoth  the  observant  ;Man  of  the  World : 
"Place  his  honor  in" his  own  keeping,  and  he 
will  carry  it  about  with  him  on  full  cock,  to 
blow  off  a  friend's  head  or  his  own  before  the 
end  of  the  first  month.  Huffy — decidedly  huffy. 
And  of  all  causes  that  disturb  regiments,  and 
induce  court-martials,  the  commonest  cause  is 
a  huffy  lad!  Pity!  for  that  youngster  has  in 
him  the  right  metal  —  spirit  and  talent  that 
should  make  him  a  first-rate  soldier.  It  would 
be  time  well  spent,  that  should  join  professional 
studies  with  that  degree  of  polite  culture  which 
gives  dignity  and  cures  hurjiacss.  I  must  get 
him  out  of  London,  out  of  England  —  cut  him 
off  from  his  mother's  aprori-strings,  and  the  par- 
ticular friends  of  his  poor  father  who  prowl  un- 
announced into  the  widow's  drawing-room.  He 
shall  go  to  Paris — no  better  place  to  learn  mili- 
tary theories,  and  be  civilized  out  of  hufly  dis- 
positions. No  doubt  my  old  friend,  the  cheva- 
lier, who  has  the  art  strategic  at  his  finger-ends, 
might  be  induced  to  take  him  en  pension,  direct 
his  studies,  and  keep  him  out  of  harm's  way.  I 
can  secure  to  him  the  entree  into  the  circles  of 
the  rigid  old  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  where  man- 
ners are  best  bred,  and  household  ties  most  re- 
spected. Besides,  as  I  am  so  often  at  Paris  my- 
self, I  shall  have  him  under  my  eye ;  and  a  few 
years  there  spent  in  completing  him  as  man  may 
bring  him  nearer  to  that  marshal's  baton  which 
every  recniit  should  have  in  his  eye,  than  if  I 
started  him  at  once,  a  raw  boy,  unable  to  take 
care  of  himself  as  an  ensign,  and  unfitted,  save 
by  mechanical  routine,  to  take  care  of  others, 
should  he  live  to  buy  the  grade  of  a  colonel." 

The  plans  thus  promptly  formed  Alban  J[or- 
ley  briefly  explained  to  Lionel,  when  the  boy 
came  to  breakfast  in  Curzon  Street,  requesting 
him  to  obtain  Jlrs.  Haughton's  acquiescence  in 
that  exercise  of  the  discretionary  powers  with 
which  he  had  been  invested  by  Mr.  Darrell.  To 
Lionel  the  proposition  that  commended  the 
very  studies  to  which  his  tastes  directed  his  am- 
bition, and  placed  his  initiation  into  responsible 
manhood  among  scenes  bright  to  his  fancy,  be- 
cause new  to  his  experience,  seemed,  of  course, 
the  perfection  of  wisdom. 

Less  readily  pleased  was  poor  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton when  her  son  returned  to  communicate  the 
arrangement,  backing  a  polite  and  well-worded 
letter  from  the  Colonel  with  his  own  more  ai-t- 
less  eloquence.  Instantly  she  flew  ofl'  on  the 
wing  of  her  "little  tempers."  "What!  her 
only  son  taken  from  her — sent  to  that  horrid 
Continent,  just  when  she  was  so  respectably  set- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Ill 


tied !  TMiat  was  the  good  of  money  if  she  was 
to  be  parted  from  her  boy?  Mr.  Darrell  mijiht 
take  the  money  back  if  he  pleased — she  would 
write  and  tell  him  so.  Colonel  Morley  had  no 
feeljn.ir;  and  she  was  shocked  to  think  Lionel 
was  in  such  unnatural  hands.  She  saw  ver}- 
plainly  that  he  no  longer  cared  for  her — a  ser- 
pent's tooth,  etc.,  etc."  But  as  soon  as  the 
burst  was  over  the  sky  cleared,  and  Mrs.  Ilaugh- 
ton  became  penitent  and  sensible.  Then  her 
grief  for  Lionel's  loss  was  diverted  by  prepara- 
tions for  his  departure.  There  was  his  ward- 
robe to  see  to — a  patent  portmanteau  to  pur- 
chase and  to  fill.  And,  all  done,  the  last  even- 
ing mother  and  son  spent  together,  though  pain- 
ful at  the  moment,  it  would  be  happiness  for 
both  herea/ter  to  recall  I  Their  hands  clasped 
in  each  other  —  her  head  leaning  on  his  young 
shoulder — her  tears  kissed  so  soothingly  away. 
And  soft  words  of  kindly,  motherly  counsel — 
sweet  promises  of  filial  performance.  Happy, 
thrice  happy,  as  an  after  remembrance,  be  the 
final  parting  between  hopeful  son  and  fearful 
parent,  at  the  foot  of  that  mystic  bridge  which 
starts  from  the  threshold  of  Home — lost  in  the 
dimness  of  the  far-opposing  shore  I — bridge  over 
■which  goes  the  boy  who  will  never  return  but  as 
the  man. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

The  Pocket-Cannibal  baits  his  woman's  trap  with  love- 
letters — And  a  widow  allured  steals  timidly  toward  it 
from  under  the  weeds. 

Jasper  Loselt  is  beginning  to  be  hard  up  I 
The  infallible  calculation  at  ronge-et-noir  has 
carried  oft  all  that  cajjital  which  had  accumu- 
lated from  the  savings  of  the  young  gentlemen 
whom  Dolly  Poole  had  contributed  to  his  ex- 
chequer. Poole  himself  is  beset  by  duns,  and 
pathetically  observes  "that  he  has  lost  three 
stone  in  weight,  and  that  he  believes  the  calves 
to  his  legs  are  gone  to  enlarge  his  liver." 

Jasper  is  compelled  to  put  down  his  cabriolet 
— to  discharge  his  groom — to  retire  from  his 
fashionable  lodgings ;  and  just  when  the  pros- 
pect even  of  a  dinner  becomes  dim,  he  bethinks 
himself  of  Arabella  Crane,  and  remembers  that 
she  promised  him  £5,  nay,  £10,  which  are  still 
due  from  her.  He  calls — he  is  received  like  the 
prodigal  son.  Xay,  to  his  own  surprise,  he  finds 
Mrs.  Crane  has  made  her  house  much  more  in- 
viting— the  drawing-rooms  are  cleaned  up ;  the 
addition  of  a  few  easy  anicles  of  furniture  gives 
them  quite  a  comfortable  air.  She  herself  has 
improved  in  costume — though  her  favorite  color 
sfill  remains  iron-gray.  She  informs  Jasper  that 
she  fully  expected  him — that  these  preparations 
are  in  his  honor — that  she  has  engaged  a  very 
good  cook — that  she  hopes  he  will  dine  with  her 
when  not  better  engaged  ;  in  short,  let  him  feel 
himself  at  home  in  Podden  Place. 

Jasper  at  first  suspected  a  sinister  design,  un- 
der civilities  that  his  conscience  told  him  were 
unmerited — a  design  to  entrap  him  into  that 
matrimonial  alliance  which  he  had  so  ungal- 
lantly  scouted,  and  from  which  he  still  recoiled 
with  an  abhorrence  which  man  is  not  justified 
in  feeling  for  any  connubial  partner  less  preter- 
naturally  terrific  than  the  Witch  of  Endor  or 
the  Bleeding  Nun ! 


But  Mrs.  Crane  quickly  and  candidly  hastened 
to  dispel  his  ungenerous  apprehensions.  "  She 
had  given  up,'" she  said,  "all  ideas  so  preposter- 
ous— love  and  wedlock  were  equally  out  of  her 
mind.  But  ill  as  he  had  behaved  to  her,  she 
could  not  but  feel  a  sincere  regard  for  him— a 
deep  interest  in  his  fate,  lie  oiight  still  to  make 
a  brilliant  marriage — did  that  idea  not  occur  to 
him  ?  She  might  help  him  there  with  her  wo- 
man's wit.  In  short,'  said  Mrs.  Crane,  pinch- 
ing her  lips,  "  in  short,  Jasper,  I  feel  for  you  as 
a  viotlier.     Look  on  me  as  such  I" 

That  pure  and  aftectionate  notion  \\onder- 
fuUy  tickled,  and  egregiously  delighted  Jasper 
Losely,  '"Look  on  you  as  a  mother!  I  will," 
said  he,  with  emphasis.  '"Best  of  creatures  I" 
And  though  in  his  own  mind  he  had  not  a  doubt 
that  she  still  adored  him  (not  as  a  mother),  he 
believed  it  was  a  disinterested,  devoted  adora- 
tion, such  as  the  beautiful  brute  really  had  in- 
spired more  than  once  in  his  abominable  life. 
Accordingly,  he  moved  into  the  neighborhood 
of  Podden  Place,  contenting  himself  with  a  sec- 
ond-floor bedroom  in  a  house  recommended  to 
him  by  Mrs.  Crane,  and  taking  his  meals  at  his 
adopted  mother's  with  filial  famiharity.  She 
expressed  a  desire  to  make  Mr.  Poole's  ac- 
quaintance— Jasper  hastened  to  present  that 
worthy.  Mrs.  Crane  invited  Samuel  Dolly  to 
dine  one  day,  to  sup  the  next;  she  lent  him  £3 
to  redeem  his  dress-coat  from  pawn,  and  she 
gave  him  medicaments  for  the  relief  of  his  head- 
ache. 

Samuel  Dolly  venerated  her  as  a  most  supe- 
rior woman — envied  Jasper  such  a  '"mother." 
Thus  easily  did  Arabella  Crane  possess  herself 
of  the  existence  of  Jasper  Losely.  Lightly  her 
fingers  closed  over  it — lightly  asthe  fisherman's 
over  the  captivated  trout.  And  whatever  her 
generosity,  it  was  not  carried  to  imprudence. 
She  just  gave  to  Jasjer  enough  to  bring  him 
within  her  power — she  had  no  idea  of  ruining 
herself  by  larger  sujiplies — she  concealed  from 
him  the  extent  of  her  income  (which  was  in 
chief  part  derived  from  house  rents),  the  amount 
of  her  savings,  even  the  name  of  her  banker. 
And  if  he  carried  oflf  to  the  ronge-et-noir  table 
the  coins  he  obtained  from  her,  and  came  for 
more,  Mrs.  Crane  put  on  the  look  of  a  mother 
incensed — mild  but  awful — and  scolded  as  mo- 
thers sometimes  can  scold.  Jasper  Losely  began 
to  be  frightened  at  Mrs.  Crane's  scoldings.  And 
he  had  not  that  pjower  over  her,  which,  though 
arrogated  by  a  lover,  is  denied  to  an  adopted 
son.  His  mind,  relieved  from  the  habitual  dis- 
traction of  the  gambling-table — for  which  the 
resource  was  wanting — settled  with  redoubled 
ardor  on  the  image  of  Mrs.  Haughton.  He  had 
called  at  her  house  several  times  since  the  fatal 
day  on  which  he  had  met  there  Colonel  Morley, 
but  Mrs.  Haughton  was  never  at  home.  And 
as,  when  the  answer  was  given  to  him  In'  the 
footman,  he  had  more  than  once,  on  crossing 
the  street,  seen  herself  through  the  window,  it 
was  clear  that  his  acquaintance  was  not  court- 
ed. Jas])er  Losely,  by  habit,  was  the  reverse 
of  a  pertinacious  aud  troublesome  suitor — not, 
Heaven  knows,  from  want  of  audacity,  but  from 
excess  of  self-love.  "\Miere  a  lovelace  so  su- 
perb condescended  to  make  overtures,  a  Cla- 
rissa so  tasteless  as  to  decline  them  deserved  and 
experienced  his  contempt.     Besides,  steadfast 


112 


WHAT  WELL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


and  prolonged  pursuit  of  any  object,  however 
important  and  atti-active,  was  alien  to  the  lev- 
ity and  fickleness  of  his  temper.  But  in  this 
instance  he  had  other  motives  than  those  on  the 
surface  for  unusual  perseverance. 

A  man  like  Jasper  Losely  never  reposes  im- 
plicit confidence  in  any  one.  He  is  garrulous, 
indiscreet — lets  out  much  that  Machiavel  would 
have  advised  him  not  to  disclose  ;  but  he  inva- 
riably has  nooks  and  corners  in  his  mind  which 
he  keeps  to  himself.  Jasper  did  not  confide  to 
his  adoj)ted  mother  his  designs  upon  his  intend- 
ed bride.  But  she  knew  them  through  Poole,  to 
whom  he  was  more  frank;  and  when  she  saw 
him  looking  over  her  select  and  severe  libraiy — 
taking  therefrom  the  Polite  Letter- Writer  and 
the  Elegant  Extracts,  Mrs.  Crane  divined  at  once 
that  Jasper  Losely  was  meditating  the  eflect  of 
epistolary  seduction  upon  the  widou-  of  Glouces- 
ter Place. 

Jasper  did  not  write  a  bad  love-letter  in  the 
florid  style.  He  had  at  his  command,  in  espe- 
cial, certain  poetical  quotations,  the  efl^ect  of 
which  repeated  experience  had  assured  him  to 
be  as  potent  upon  the  female  breast  as  the  in- 
cantations or  Carmina  of  the  ancient  sorcery. 
The  following  in  particular : 

"Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  you." 

Another — generally  to  be  applied  when  confess- 
ing that  his  career  had  been  interestingly  wild, 
and  would,  if  pity  were  denied  him,  be  pathet- 
ically short: 

"When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  uame 
Of  his  faults  and  his  follies  behind." 

Armed  with  these  quotations — many  a  sen- 
tence from  the  Polite  Letter-  Writer  or  the  Ele- 
gant ExtracAs — and  a  quire  of  rose-edged  paj>er, 
Losely  sat  down  to  Ovidian  composition.  But 
as  he  approached  the  close  of  Epistle  the  First, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  a  signature  and  address 
were  necessary.  The  address  not  difficult.  He 
could  give  Boole's  (hence  his  confidence  to  that 
gentleman  J — Poole  had  a  lodging  in  Bury  Street, 
yt.  James,  a  fashionable  locality  for  single  men. 
But  the  name  required  more  consideratipn. 
There  were  insuperable  objections  against  sign- 
ing his  own  to  any  person  who  might  be  in  com- 
munication with  Mr.  Dan-ell — a  pity,  for  there 
was  a  good  old  family  of  the  name  of  Lose- 
ly. A  name  of  aristocratic  sound  might  indeed 
be  readily  borrowed  from  any  lordly  proprietor 
thereof  without  asking  a  formal  consent.  But 
this  loan  was  exposed  to  danger.  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton  might  very  naturally  mention  such  name,  as 
borne  by  her  husband's  friend,  to  Colonel  Mor- 
ley,  and  Colonel  Morley  would  most  probably 
know  enough  of  the  connections  and  relations 
of  any  jieer  so  honored  to  say,  "There  is  no 
such  Greville,  Cavendish,  or  Talbot."  But  Jas- 
per Losely  was  not  without  fertility  of  invention 
and  readiness  of  resource.  A  grand  idea,  wor- 
thy of  a  master,  and  proving  that,  if  the  man 
had  not  been  a  rogue  in  grain,  he  could  have 
been  reared  into  a  very  clever  politician,  flashed 
across  him.  He  would  sign  himself  "  Smith." 
Nobody  could  say  there  is  no  such  Smith  ;  no- 
body could  say  that  a  Smith  might  not  be  a 
most  respectable,  fashionable,  highly  connected 
man.  There  are  Smiths  who  are  millionaires 
— Smiths  who  are  large-acred  squires — substan- 
tial baronets — peers  of  England,  and  pillars  of 


the  State — members  even  of  the  British  Cabi- 
net. You  can  no  more  question  a  man's  right 
to  be  a  Smith  than  his  right  to  be  a  Briton; 
and  wide  as  the  diversity  of  rank,  lineage,  vir- 
tue, and  genius  in  Britons,  is  the  diversity  in 
Smiths.  But  still  a  name  so  generic  often  af- 
fects a  definitive  precursor.  Jasper  signed  him- 
self "J.  COLRTEXAT  SmITH." 

He  called,  and  left  Epistle  the  First  with  his 
own  kid-gloved  hand,  inquiring  first  if  Mrs. 
Haughton  were  at  home,  and,  responded  to  in 
the  negative,  this  time,  he  asked  for  her  son. 
"  Her  son  was  gone  abroad  with  Colonel  Mor- 
ley." Jasper,  though  sorrj-  to  lose  present  hold 
over  the  boy,  was  consoled  at  learning  that  the 
Colonel  was  oil'  the  ground.  More  sanguine  of 
success,  he  glanced  up  at  the  window,  and,  sure 
that  ilrs.  Haughton  was  there,  though  he  saw 
her  not,  lifted  his  hat  Mith  as  melancholy  an 
expression  of  reproach  as  he  could  throw  into 
his  face. 

The  villain  could  not  have  found  a  moment 
in  ^Irs.  Haughton's  widowed  life  so  propitious 
to  his  chance  of  success.  In  her  lodging-house 
at  Pimlico,  the  good  lady  had  been  too  inces- 
santly occupied  for  that  idle  train  of  reverie  in 
which,  the  poets  assure  us,  that  Cupid  finds 
leisure  to  whet  his  arrows,  and  take  his  aim. 
Had  Lionel  still  been  by  her  side — had  even 
Colonel  ^lorley  been  in  town — her  affection  for 
the  one,  her  awe  of  the  other,  would  have  been 
her  safeguards.  But  alone  in  that  fine  new 
house — no  friends,  no  acquaintances  as  yet — no 
dear  visiting  circle  on  which  to  expend  the  de- 
sire of  talk  and  the  zest  for  innocent  excitement 
that  are  natural  to  ladies  of  an  active  mind  and 
a  nervous  temperament,  the  sudden  obtrusion  of 
a  suitor  so  respectfully  ardent — oh,  it  is  not  to 
be  denied  that  the  temptation  was  immense  ! 

And  when  that   note,   so  neatly  folded — so 

elegantly  sealed — lay  in  her  in-esolute  hand,  the 

widow  could  not    but    feel   that  she  was  still 

young,  still  pretty ;  and  her  heart  flew  back  to 

the  day  when  the  linen-draper's  fair  daughter 

had  been  the  cynosure  of  the  provincial  High 

Street — when  young  officers  had  lounged  to  and 

fro  the  pavement,  looking  in  at  her  window — 

when  ogles  and  notes  had  alike  beset  her,  and 

j  the  dark  eyes  of  the  irresistible  Chr.rlie  Haugh- 

j  ton  had  first  taught  her  pulse  to  tremble.     And 

in  her  hand  lies  the  letter  of  Charlie  Haughton's 

\  particular  friend.     She  breaks  the  seal.     She 

'  reads — a  declaration  ! 

Five  letters  in  five  days  did  Jasper  T\Tite.     In 
!  the  course  of  those  letters,  he  explains  av,-ay  the 
I  causes  for  suspicion  which  Colonel  Morley  had 
so  ungenerously  suggested.     He  is  no  longer 
anonymous — he    is   J.   Courtenay  Smith.     He 
I  alludes  incidentally  to  the  precocious  age  in 
which  he  had  become  "lord  of  himself,  that 
heritage  of  M'oe."     This  accounts  for  his  friend- 
ship with  a  man  so  much  his  senior  as  the  late 
Charlie.     He  confesses  that,  in  the  vortex  of 
I  dissipation,  his  hereditary  estates  have  disap- 
!  peared ;  but  he  has  still  a  genteel  independence ; 
and  with  the  woman  of  his  heart,  etc.,  etc.     He 
had  never  before  known  what  real  love  was,  etc. 
"  Pleasure  had  fired  his  maddening  soul ;"  "  but 
the  heart — the  heart  been  lonely  still."     He  en- 
treated only  a  personal  inteniew,  even  though 
to  be  rejected — scorned.     Still,  when  "he  who 
adored  her  had  left  but  the  name,"  etc.,  etc. 


•WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


113 


Alas  I  alas  I  as  Mrs.  Haughton  put  do^Yn  Epistle 
the  Fifth,  she  hesitated;  and  the  woman  who 
hesitates  in  such  a  case,  is  sure,  at  least — to 
^^Tite  a  civil  answer. 

Mi-s.  Haughton  wrote  but  three  lines — still 
thev  were  civil — and  conceded  an  interview  for 
the' next  day,  though  implying  that  it  was  but 
for  the  purjjose  of  assuring  Mr.  J.  Courtenay 
Smith  in  person,  of  her  unalterable  fidelity  to 
the  shade  of  his  lamented  friend. 

In  liigh  glee  Jasper  s-howed  Mrs.  Haughton's 
answer  to  Dolly  Poole,  and  began  seriously  to 
speculate  on  the  probable  amount  of  the  wid- 
ow's income,  and  the  value  of  her  movables  in 
Gloucester  Place.  Thence  he  repaired  to  Mrs. 
Crane;  and.  emboldened  by  the  hope  forever  to 
escape  from  maternal  tutelage,  braved  her  scold- 
ings, and  asked  for  a  couple  of  sovereigns.  He 
was  sure  that  he  should  be  in  luck  that  night. 
She  gave  to  him  the  sum  and  spared  the  scold- 
ings. But  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  conject- 
uring, from  the  bravado  of  his  manner,  what 
had  really  occurred,  Mrs.  Crane  put  c*i  her  bon- 
net and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

fnhappy  is  the  man  who  puts  his  trust  in — a  -n-oman. 

Late  that  evening  a  lady,  in  a  black  vail, 
knocked  at  Xo.  —  Gloucester  Place,  and  asked 
to  see  Mrs.  Haughton  on  urgent  business.  She 
was  admitted.     She  remained  but  five  minutes. 

The  next  day,  when  "gay  as  a  bridegroom 
prancing  to  his  bride,"  Jasper  Losely  presented 
himself  at  the  widow's  door,  the  servant  placed 
in  his  hand  a  packet,  and  informed  him  bluff- 
ly that  Mrs.  Haughton  had  gone  out  of  town, 
jasper  with  difficulty  suppressed  his  rage,  open- 
ed the  packet — his  own  letters  returned,  with 
these  words — "  Sir,  your  name  is  not  Courtenay 
Smith.  If  you  trouble  me  again  I  shall  apply 
to  the  police."  Never  from  female  hand  had 
Jasper  Loscly's  pride  received  such  a  slap  on  its 
face.  He  was  literally  stunned.  Mechanically 
he  hastened  to  Arabella  Crane  ;  and  having  no 
longer  any  object  in  concealment,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  a  most  urgent  craving  for  sympathy, 
he  poured  forth  his  indignation  and  wrongs. 
No  mother  could  be  more  consolatory  than  Mrs. 
Crane.  She  soothed,  she  flattered,  she  gave  him 
an  excellent  dinner ;  after  which  she  made  him 
so  comfortable — what  with  an  easy-cliair  and 
complimentary  converse,  that,  when  Jasper  rose 
late  to  return  to  his  lodging,  he  said:  "After 
all,  if  I  had  been  ugly  and  stupid,  and  of  a 
weakly  constitution,  I  should  have  been  of  a 
verj-  domestic  turn  of  mind." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

No  Author  ever  drew  a  character,  consistent  to  human 
nature,  but  what  he  was  forced  to  ascribe  to  it  many 
inconsistencies. 

WnETiiER  moved  by  that  pathetic  speech  of 
Jasper's,  or  by  some  other  impulse  not  less 
feminine,  Arabella  Crane  seemed  suddenly  to 
conceive  the  laudable  and  arduous  design  of  re- 
forming that  portentous  sinner.  She  had  some 
distant  relations  in  London,  whom  she  very 
rarely  troubled  with  a  visit,  and  who,  had  she 
H 


wanted  any  thing  from  them,  would  have  shut 
their  doors  in  her  face  ;  but  as,  on  the  contrary, 
she  was  well  otl",  single,  and  might  leave  her 
money  to  whom  she  jdeased,  the  distant  rela- 
tions were  always  warm  in  manner,  and  prodigal 
in  their  ofters  of  senice.  The  next  day  she  re- 
paired to  one  of  these  kinsfolk — a  person  in  a 
large  way  of  business — and  returned  home  with 
two  great  books  in  white  sheepskin.  And  when 
Losely  looked  in  to  dine,  she  said,  in  the  suavest 
tones  a  tender  mother  can  address  to  an  amiable 
truant,  "Jasper,  you  have  great  abilities — at  the 
gaming-table  abilities  are  evidently  useless — 
your  forte  is  calculation — you  were  always  very 
quick  at  that.  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to 
procure  you  an  easy  piece  of  taskwork,  for  w  hicli 
you  will  be  liberally  remunerated.  A  friend  of 
minp  wishes  to  submit  these  books  to  a  regular 
accountant ;  he  suspects  that  a  clerk  has  cheated 
him,  but  he  can  not  tell  how  or  where.  You 
know  accounts  thoroughly — no  one  better — and 
the  pay  will  be  ten  guineas." 

Jasper,  though  his  early  life  had  rendered 
familiar  and  facile  to  him  the  science  of  book- 
keeping and  double-entry,  made  a  grimace  at 
the  revolting  idea  of  any  honest  labor,  however 
light  and  well  paid.  But  ten  guineas  were  an 
immense  temptation,  and  in  the  evening  Jlrs. 
Crane  coaxed  him  into  the  task. 

Neglecting  no  feminine  art  to  make  the  law- 
less nomad  feel  at  home  under  her  roof,  she  had 
provided  for  his  ease  and  comfort  morocco  slip- 
pers and  a  superb  dressing-robe,  in  material 
i-ich,  in  color  becoming.  Men,  single  or  mari- 
tal, are  accustomed  to  connect  the  idea  of  home 
with  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  especially  if, 
after  dinner,  they  apply  (as  Jasper  Losely  now- 
applied)  to  occupations,  in  which  the  brain  is 
active,  the  form  in  repose.  "What  achievement, 
literaiy  or  scientific,  was  ever  accomplished  by 
a  student  strapped  to  unyielding  boots,  and 
"cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  in  a  coat  that 
fits  him  like  wax?  As  robed  in  the  cozy  gar- 
ment which  is  consecrated  to  the  sacred  familiar 
Lares,  the  relaxing,  handsome  ruffian  sate  iu 
the  quiet  room,  bending  his  still  regular  jirofile 
over  the  sheepskin  books — the  harmless  pen  in 
that  strong  well-shajied  hand,  Mrs.  Crane  watch- 
ed him  with  a  softening  countenance.  To  liear 
him  company,  she  had  actively  taken  herself  to 
work — the  gold  thimble  dragged  from  its  long 
repose — marking  and  hemming,  with  nimble 
artistic  fingei-s,  new  cravats  for  the  adopted  son ! 
Strange  creature  is  Woman!  Ungrateful  and 
perfidious  as  that  sleek  tiger  before  her  had  oft- 
en proved  himself — though  no  man  could  less 
deserve  one  kindly  sentiment  in  a  female  heart 
— though  she  knew  that  he  cared  nothing  for 
her,  still  it  was  pleasing  to  know  that  he  cared 
for  nobody  else — that  he  was  sitting  in  the  same 
room — and  Arabella  Crane  felt  that  if  that  ex- 
istence could  continue  she  could  forget  the  past, 
and  look  contented  toward  the  future.  Again  I 
say,  strange  creature  is  Woman! — and,  in  this 
instance,  creature  more  strange,  because  so 
grim  !  But  as  her  eyes  soften,  and  her  fingers 
work,  and  her  mind  revolves  schemes  for  mak- 
ing that  lawless  wild  beast  an  innocuous,  tame 
animal,  who  can  help  feeling  for  and  with  grim 
Arabella  Crane  ? 

Poor  woman  !  And  will  not  the  experiment 
succeed?    Three  evenings  does  Jasper  Losely 


114 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


devote  to  this  sinless  life  and  its  peaceful  occu- 
pation. He  completes  his  task — he  receives  the 
ten  guineas.  (How  much  of  that  fee  came  out 
of  Mrs.  Crane's  privy  purse?)  He  detects  three 
mistakes,  which  justify  suspicion  of  the  book- 
keeper's integrity.  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief! 
He  is  praised  for  acuteness,  and  promised  a  still 
lighter  employment,  to  be  still  better  paid.  He 
departs,  declaring  that  he  will  come  the  next 
day,  earlier  than  usual — he  volunteers  an  eulo- 
giura  upon  work  in  general — he  vows  that  even- 
ings so  happy  he  has  not  spent  for  years ;  he 
leaves  Mrs.  Crane  so  much  impressed  by  the 
hope  of  his  improvement,  that  if  a  good  clergy- 
man had  found  her  just  at  that  moment,  she 
might  almost  have  been  induced  to  pray.   But — 

"  lieu  quoties  fidem 
Mutatosque  deos  flebit!" 

Jasper  Losely  returns  not,  neither  to  Podden 
Place  nor  to  his  lodging  in  the  neighborhood. 
Days  elapse ;  still  he  comes  not ;  even  Poole 
does  not  know  where  he  has  gone ;  even  Poole 
has  not  seen  him!  But  that  latter  worthy  is 
now  laid  up  with  a  serious  rheumatic  fever — 
confined  to  his  i-oom  and  water-gruel.  And  Jas- 
per Losely  is  not  the  man  to  intrude  himself  on 
the  privacy  of  a  sick  chamber.  Mrs.  Crane, 
more  benevolent,  visits  Poole — cheers  him  up — 
gets  him  a  nurse — writes  to  Uncle  Sam.  Poole 
blesses  her.  He  hopes  that  Uncle  Sam,  moved 
by  the  spectacle  of  his  sick  bed,  will  say,  "Don't 
let  your  debts  fret  you — I  will  pay  them !"  What- 
ever her  disappointment  or  resentment  at  Jas- 
per's thankless  and  mysterious  evasion,  Arabel- 
la Crane  is  calmly  confident  of  his  return.  To 
her  servant,  Bridgett  Greggs,  who  was  perhaps 
the  sole  person  in  the  world  who  entertained 
affection  for  tlie  lone,  gaunt  woman,  and  who 
held  Jasper  Losely  in  profound  detestation,  she 
said,  with  tranquil  sternness,  "  That  man  has 
crossed  my  life,  and  darkened  it.  He  passed 
away,  and  left  Night  behind  him.  He  has  dared 
to  return.  He  shall  never  escape  me  again  till 
the  grave  yawn  for  one  of  us." 

"But,  Lor'  love  you,  miss,  you  would  not  put 
yourself  in  the  power  of  such  a  black-hearted 
vilHng  ?" 

"  In  Ids  power !  No,  Bridgett ;  fear  not,  he 
must  be  in  mine — sooner  or  later  in  mine — 
hand  and  foot.     Patience !" 

As  she  was  thus  speaking — a  knock  at  the 
door — "  It  is  he — I  told  you  so — quick!" 

But  it  was  not  Jasper  Losely.  It  was  Mr. 
Ruggc. 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

""When  God  ivUls,  all  winds  bring  rain." — Ancient  Pro- 
verb. 

The  manager  had  not  submitted  to  the  loss 
of  his  property  in  Sophy  and  £100,  without  tak- 
ing much  vain  trouble  to  recover  the  one  or  the 
other.  He  liad  visited  Jasper  while  that  gentle- 
man lodged  in  St.  James's,  but  the  moment  he 
hinted  at  the  return  of  the  £100,  Mr.  Losely 
opened  both  door  and  window,  and  requested 
the  manager  to  make  his  iininediate  choice  of 
the  two.  Taking  the  more  usual  mode  of  exit. 
Ml-.  Rugge  vented  his  just  indignation  in  a  law- 
yer's letter,  threatening  Mr.  Losely  with  an  ac- 
tion for  conspiracy  and  fraud.     He  had  also 


more  than  once  visited  Mrs.  Crane,  who  some- 
what soothed  him  by  allowing  that  he  had  been 
very  badly  used,  that  he  ought  at  least  to  be  re- 
paid his  money,  and  promising  to  do  her  best  to 
persuade  Mr.  Losely  to  "behave  like  a  gentle- 
man." With  regard  to  So])hy  herself,  Mrs. 
Crane  appeared  to  feel  a  profound  indifference. 
In  fact,  the  hatred  which  Mrs.  Crane  had  un- 
questionably conceived  for  Sophy  while  under 
her  charge,  was  much  diminished  by  Losely's 
unnatural  conduct  toward  the  child.  To  her  it 
was  probably  a  matter  of  no  interest  whether 
Sophy  was  in  Rugge's  hands  or  Waife's  ;  enough 
for  her  that  the  daughter  of  a  woman  against 
whose  memory  her  fiercest  passions  were  enlist- 
ed was,  in  either  case,  so  far  below  herself  in 
the  grades  of  the  social  ladder. 

Perhaps  of  the  two  protectors  for  Sophy — 
Rugge  and  Waife — her  spite  alone  would  have 
given  the  preference  to  Waife.  He  was  on  a 
still  lower  step  of  the  ladder  than  the  itinerant 
manager.  Nor,  though  she  had  so  mortally  in- 
jured the  forlorn  cripple  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Har- 
topp,  had  she  any  deliberate  purpose  of  revenge 
to  gratify  against  /dm!  On  the  contrary,  if  she 
viewed  him  with  contempt,  it  was  a  contempt 
not  unmixed  with  pity.  It  was  necessary  to 
make  to  the  mayor  the  communications  she  had 
made,  or  that  worthy  magistrate  would  not  have 
surrendered  the  child  intrusted  to  him,  at  least 
until  Waife's  return.  And  really  it  was  a  kind- 
ness to  the  old  man  to  save  him  both  from  an 
agonizing  scene  with  Jasper,  and  from  tlic  moi'c 
public  opprobrium  which  any  resistance  on  his 
part  to  Jasper's  authority,  or  any  altercation  be- 
tween the  two,  Mould  occasion.  And  as  her 
main  object  then  was  to  secure  Losely's  allegi- 
ance to  her,  by  proving  her  power  to  be  useful 
to  him,  so  Waifes,  and  Sophys,  and  Mayors,  and 
Managers,  were  to  her  but  as  pawns  to  be  moved 
and  sacrificed,  according  to  the  leading  strategy 
of  her  game. 

Rugge  came  now,  agitated  and  breathless,  to 
inform  Jlrs.  Crane  that  Waife  had  been  seen  in 
London.  Sir.  Rugge's  clown  had  seen  him,  not 
far  from  the  Tower ;  but  the  cripple  had  disap- 
peared before  the  clown,  M"ho  was  on  t!ie  top  of 
an  omnibus,  had  time  to  descend.  "And  even 
if  he  had  actually  caught  hold  of  Mr.  AVaife," 
observed  JNIrs.  Crane,  "what  then?  You  have 
no  claim  on  Mr.  Waife." 

*^  But  the  Phenomenon  must  be  with  that  rav- 
ishing marauder,'"'  said  Rugge.  "However,  I 
have  set  a  minister  of  justice,  that  is,  ma'am,  a 
detective  police,  at  work ;  and  what  I  now  ask 
of  you  is  simply  this — should  it  be  necessary 
for  JVIr.  Losely  to  appear  with  me  before  the 
senate,  that  is  to  say,  ma'am,  a  metropolitan 
police  court,  iu  order  to  prove  my  legal  ])roperty 
in  my  own  bouglit  and  paid-for  Phenomenon, 
will  you  induce  that  bold,  bad  man,  not  again 
to  return  the  jjoisoned  chalice  to  my  lips?" 

"  I  do  not  even  know  where  Mr.  Losely  is — 
perhaps  not  in  London." 

"Ma'am,  I  saw  him  last  night  at  the  theatre — 
Princess's.  I  was  in  the  shilling  gallery.  He  who 
owes  me  £100,  ma'am — lie  in  a  private  box!" 

"  Ah  !  you  arc  sure  ;  by  himself?" 

"  Vrith  a  lady,  ma'am — a  lady  in  a  shawl  from 
Ingee.  I  know  them  sliawls.  My  father  taught 
me  to  know  them  in  early  childliood,  for  he  v,-a3 
an  ornament  to  British  commerce — a  broker, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


115 


ma'am — pawn!  And,"  continued  Rugge,  with 
a  withering  smile,  "  that  man  in  a  private  box, 
which  at  the  Princess's  costs  two  pounds  two, 
and  with  the  spoils  of  Ingee  by  his  side,  lifted 
his  eye-glass  and  beheld  me  ;  me  in  the  shilling 
gallery,  and  his  conscience  did  not  say '  should 
we  not  change  places  if  I  paid  that  gentleman 
i;iOO?'  Can  such  things  be,  and  overcome  us, 
ma'am,  like  a  summer-cloud,  without  our  spe- 
cial— I  put  it  to  you,  ma'am — wonder?" 

♦'Oh,  with  a  lady,  was  he!"  exclaimed  Ara- 
bella Crane  ;  her  wrath,  which,  while  the  man- 
ager spoke,  gathered  fast  and  full,  bursting  now 
into  words — "His  ladies  shall  know  the  man 
who  sells  his  own  child  for  a  show ;  only  find 
out  wlierc  the  girl  is,  then  come  here  again  be- 
fore you  stir  further.  Oh,  with  a  lady  I  Go  to 
your  detective  policeman,  or,  rather,  send  him  to 
me ;  we  will  first  discover  Mr.  Losely's  address. 
I  will  pay  all  the  expenses.  Eely  on  my  zeal, 
Mr.  Rugge." 

Much  comforted,  the  manager  went  his  way. 
He  had  not  been  long  gone  before  Jasper  him- 
self appeared.  The  traitor  entered  with  a  more 
than  customary  bravado  of  manner,  as  if  he  ap- 
prehended a  scolding,  and  was  prepared  to  face 
it ;  but  ^Irs.  Crane  neither  reproached  him  for 
his  prolonged  absence,  nor  expressed  surprise  at 
his  return.  With  true  feminine  duplicity  she  re- 
ceived him  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Jasper, 
thus  relieved,  became  of  his  own  accord  apo- 
logetic and  explanatory;  evidently  he  wanted 
something  of  Mrs.  Crane.  "  The  fact  is,  my  dear 
friend,"  said  he,  sinking  into  a  chair,  "  that  the 
day  after  I  last  saw  you, I  happened  to  go  to  the 
General  Post-office  to  see  if  there  were  any  let- 
ters for  me — you  smile,  you  don't  believe  me. 
Honor  bright — here  they  are, "  and  Jasper  took 
from  the  side-pocket  of  his  coat  a  pocket-book — 
a  new  pocket-book — a  brilliant  pocket-book — 
fragrant  Russian  leather — delicately  embossed 
— golden  clasps — silken  linings — jeweled  pencil- 
case — malachite  penknife — an  ai-senal  of  nick- 
nacks  stored  in  neat  recesses  ;  such  a  pocket- 
book  as  no  man  ever  gives  to  himself.  Sarda- 
napalus  would  not  have  given  that  pocket-book 
to  himself!  Such  a  pocket-book  never  comes  to 
you,  oh,  enviable  Lotharios,  save  as  tributary 
keepsakes  from  the  charmers  who  adore  you ! 
Grimly  the  Adopted  ^Mother  eyed  that  pocket- 
book.  Never  had  she  seen  it  before.  Grimly 
she  pinched  her  lips.  Out  of  this  dainty  volume 
— which  would  have  been  of  cumbrous  size  to  a 
slim  thread-paper  exquisite,  but  scarcely  bulged 
into  rip{)lc  the  Atlantic  expanse  of  Jasjjcr  Lose- 
ly's magnificent  chest — the  monster  drew  forth 
two  letters  on  French  paper — foreign  post- 
marks. He  replaced  them  quickly,  only  suffer- 
ing her  eye  to  glance  at  the  address,  and  con- 
tinued: "Fancy!  that  purse-proud  Grand  Turk 
of  an  infidel,  though  he  would  not  believe  me, 
has  been  to  France — yes,  actually  to  *  *  *  *  * — 
making  inquiries  evidently  with  reference  to 
Sophy.  The  woman  who  ought  to  have  thor- 
oughly converted  him  took  flight,  however,  and 
missed  seeing  him.  Confound  her!  I  ought 
to  have  been  there.  So  I  have  no  doubt  for  the 
present  the  Pagan  remains  stubborn.  Gone  on 
intoltaly,  I  hear;  doing  me,  violating  thclaws 
of  nature,  and  roving  about  the  world  with  his 
own  solitarv"  hands  in  his  bottomless  pockets,  like 
the  Wandering  Jew!     But,  as  some  slight  set- 


off in  my  run  of  ill-luck,  I  find  at  the  Post-office 
a  plcasanter  letter  than  the  one  which  brings 
me  this  news  :  A  rich  elderly  lady,  who  has  no 
family,  wants  to  adojit  a  nice  child,  will  fake 
Sophy;  make  it  wortli  my  while  to  let  her  have 
Sophy.  'Tis  convenient  in  a  thousand  ways  to 
settle  one's  child  comfortably  in  a  rich  house — 
establishes  rights,  subject,  of  course,  to  cheques 
which  would  not  affront  nie — a  Father !  But  the 
first  thing  requisite  is  to  catch  Sophy;  'tis  in 
that  I  ask  j-our  help — you  are  so  clever.  Best 
of  creatures !  what  could  I  do  without  you  ?  As 
you  say,  whenever  I  want  a  friend  I  come  to 
you — Bella !" 

i\Irs.  Crane  suiTeyed  Jasper'^s  face  deliberate- 
ly. It  is  strange  how  much  more  readily  women 
read  the  thoughts  of  men  than  men  detect  those 
of  women.  "You  know  where  the  child  is," 
said  she,  slowly. 

"  Well,  I  take  it  for  granted  she  is  with  the 
old  man ;  and  I  have  seen  him — seen  him  yes- 
terday." 

"  Go  on  ;  you  saw  him — where?" 

"Near  London  Bridge." 

"What  business  could  yoti  possibly  have  in 
that  direction?  Ah!  I  guess,  the  railway-sta- 
tion— to  Dover — you  are  going  abroad?" 

"Xo  such  thing — you  are  so  horridly  suspi- 
cious. But  it  is  true  I  had  been  to  the  station 
inquiring  after  some  luggage  or  parcels  which  a 
friend  of  mine  had  ordered  to  be  left  there — 
now,  don't  interrupt  me.  At  the  foot  of  the 
bi'idge  I  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  old  man 
— changed — altered — aged — one  eye  lost.  You 
had  said  I  should  not  know  him  again,  but  I  did  ; 
I  should  never  have  recognized  his  face.  I  knew 
him  by  the  build  of  the  shoulder,  a  certain  turn 
of  the  arms — I  don't  know  what ;  one  knows  a 
man  familiar  to  one  from  birth  without  seeing 
his  face.  Uh,  Bella !  I  declare  that  I  felt  as 
soft — as  soft  as  the  silliest  muff  who  ever — " 
Jasper  did  not  complete  his  comparison,  but 
paused  a  moment,  breathing  hard,  and  then 
broke  into  another  sentence.  "  He  was  selling 
something  in  a  basket — matches,  boot-straps, 
deuce  knows  what.  He !  a  clever  man,  too !  I 
should  have  liked  to  drop  into  that  d — d  basket 
all  the  money  I  had  about  me." 

"\Miy  did  not  you  ?" 

"Why?  How  could  I?  He  would  have  rec- 
ognized me.  There  would  have  been  a  scene — 
a  row — a  flare  up — a  mob  round  us,  I  dare  say. 
I  had  no  idea  it  would  so  upset  me  ;  to  see  him 
selling  matches,  too;  glad  we  did  not  meet  at 
Gatesboro'.  Kot  even  for  that  £100  do  I  think 
I  could  have  faced  him.  No — as  he  said  when 
we  last  parted,  '  The  world  is  wide  enough  for 
both.'     Give  me  some  brandy — thank  you." 

"  You  did  not  speak  to  the  old  man — he  did 
not  see  you — but  you  wanted  to  get  back  the 
child ;  you  felt  sure  she  must  be  with  him ;  you 
followed  him  home  ?" 

"1?  No;  I  should  have  had  to  wait  for 
hours.  A  man  like  me,  loitering  about  London 
,  Bridge ! — I  should  have  been  too  consj'icuous — 
!  he  would  have  soon  caught  sight  of  me,  though 
\  I  kept  on  his  blind  side.  I  cm]tloyed  a  ragged 
j  boy  to  watch  and  follow  him,  and  here  is  the 
address.  Now,  will  you  get  Sophy  back  for  me 
!  without  any  trouble  to  me,  without  my  appear- 
ing? I  would  rather  charge  a  regiment  of 
;  Horse  Guards  than  buUv  that  old  man." 


116 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


"  Yet  you  would  rob  him  of  that  child — his  1 
sole  comfort?" 

"Bother!"  cried  Losely,  impatiently:  "the 
child  can  be  onl}'  a  burden  to  him  ;  well  out  of 
his  way ;  'tis  for  the  sake  of  that  child  he  is  sell- 
ing matches !  It  would  be  the  greatest  charity 
w'e  could  do  him  to  set  him  free  from  that  child 
sponging  on  him,  dragging  him  down ;  without 
her  he'd  find  a  way  to  shift  for  himself.  Why, 
he's  even  cleverer  than  I  am !  And  there — 
there — give  him  this  money,  but  don't  say  it 
came  from  me." 

He  thrust,  without  counting,  several  sover- 
eigns— at  least  twelve  or  fourteen — into  Mrs. 
Crane's  palm ;  and  so  powerful  a  charm  has 
goodness  the  very  least,  even  in  natures  the  most 
evil,  that  that  unusual,  eccentric,  inconsistent 
gleam  of  human  pity  in  Jasper  Losely's  benight- 
ed soul,  shed  its  relenting  influence  over  the  an- 
gry, wrathful,  and  vindictive  feelings  with  which 
Mrs.  Crane  the  moment  befoi-e  regarded  the  per- 
fidious miscreant ;  and  she  gazed  at  him  with  a 
sort  of  melancholy  wonder.  What !  though  so 
little  sympathizing  with  aft'ection  that  he  could 
not  comprehend  that  he  was  about  to  rob  the  old 
man  of  a  comfort  which  no  gold  could  rejiay — 
what !  though  so  contemptuously  callous  to  his 
own  child — yet  there  in  her  hand  lay  the  unmis- 
takable token  that  a  something  of. humanity, 
compunction,  compassion,  still  lingered  in  the 
breast  of  the  greedy  cynic ;  and  at  that  thought 
all  that  was  softest  in  her  own  human  nature 
moved  toward  him — indulgent — gentle.  But  in 
the  rapid  changes  of  the  heart-feminine,  the 
very  sentiment  that  touched  upon  love  brought 
back  the  jealousy  that  bordered  upon  hate. 
How  came  he  by  so  much  money  ?  more  than 
days  ago,  he,  the  insatiate  spendthrift,  had  re- 
ceived for  his  taskwork?  And  that  Pocket- 
book  ! 

"  You  have  suddenly  grown  rich,  Jasper?" 
For  a  moment  he  looked  confused,  but  re- 
plied, as  he  re-helped  himself  to  the  brandy, 
"  Yes,  roufje-et-noir- — luck.  Kow  do  go  and  see 
after  this  affair,  that's  a  dear,  good  woman.  Get 
the  child  to-day,  if  you  can.  I  will  call  here  in 
the  evening." 

"  Should  you  take  her,  then,  abroad  at  once 
to  this  worthy  lady  who  will  adopt  her  ?  If  so, 
we  shall  meet,  I  suppose,  no  more  ;  and  I  am 
assisting  you  to  forget  that  I  live  still." 

"  Abroad — that  crotchet  of  yours  again.  You 
are  quite  mistaken — in  fact,  the  lady  is  in  Lon- 
don. It  was  for  her  effects  that  I  went  to  the 
station.  Oh,  don't  be  jealous — quite  elderly." 
"  Jealous,  my  dear  Jasper  ;  you  forget.  I  am 
as  your  mother.  One  of  your  letters,  then,  an- 
nounced this  lady's  intended  arrival.  You  were 
in  correspondence  with  this — elderly  lady?" 

'"  Why,  not  exactly  in  correspondence.  But 
when  I  left  Paris  I  gave  the  General  Post-office 
as  my  address  to  a  few  friends  in  France.  And 
this  lady,  who  took  an  interest  in  my  affairs 
(ladies,  whether  old  or  young,  who  have  once 
known  me,  always  do),  was  aware  that  I  had 
expectations  with  respect  to  the  child.  So,  some 
days  ago,  when  I  was  so  badly  oft',  I  wrote  a  line 
to  tell  her  that  Sophy  had  been  no  go,  and  that 
but  for  a  dear  friend  (that  is  you)  I  might  be  on 
the  pave.  In  her  answer,  she  said  she  should 
be  in  London  as  soon  as  I  received  her  letter ; 
and  gave  me  an  address  here  at  which  to  learn 


■where  to  find  her  when  amved— ;a  good  old 
soul,  but  strange  to  London.  I  have  been  very 
busy,  helping  her  to  find  a  house,  recommend- 
ing tradesmen,  and  so  forth.  She  likes  style, 
and  can  afford  it.  A  pleasant  house  enough ; 
but  our  quiet  evenings  here  spoil  me  for  any 
thing  else.  Now  get  on  your  bonnet,  and  let 
me  see  you  oft"." 

"On  one  condition,  my  dear  Jasper;  that 
you  stay  here  till  I  return." 

Jasper  made  a  wry  face.  But,  as  it  was  near 
dinner-time,  and  he  never  wanted  for  appetite, 
he  at  length  agreed  to  employ  the  iuterval  of 
her  absence  in  discussing  a  meal,  which  experi- 
ence had  told  him  Mrs.  Crane's  new  cook  would, 
not  uuskillfully,  though  hastily,  prepare.  Mrs. 
Crane  left  him  to  order  the  dinner,  and  put  on 
her  shawl  and  boimet.  But,  gaining  her  own 
room,  she  rung  for  Bridgett  Greggs  ;  and  when 
that  confidential  servant  appeared,  she  said: 
"In  the  side-pocket  of  I\Ii\  Losely's  coat  there 
is  a  Pocket-book;  in  it  there  are  some  letters 
which  I  must  see.  I  shall  appear  to  go  out, 
leave  the  street-door  ajar,  that  I  may  slip  in 
again  unobserved.  Y'^ou  will  ser\'e  dinner  as 
soon  as  possible.  And  when  Jlr.  Losely,  as 
usual,  exchanges  his  coat  for  the  dressing-gown, 
contrive  to  take  out  that  pocket-book  unobsenxd 
by  him.  Bring  it  to  me  here,  in  this  room  :  you 
can  as  easily  replace  it  afterward.  A  niomeut 
will  suthce  to  my  purpose." 

Bridgett  nodded,  and  understood.  Jasper, 
standing  by  the  window,  saw  Mrs.  Crane  leave 
the  house,  walking  briskly.  He  then  threw  him- 
self on  the  sofa,  and  began  to  doze:  the  doze 
deepened,  and  became  sleep.  Bridgett,  enter- 
ing to  lay  the  cloth,  so  found  him.  She  ap- 
proached on  tiptoe — sniffed  the  perfume  of  the 
pocket-book — saw  its  gilded  corners  peep  forth 
from  its  lair.  She  hesitated — she  trembled — 
she  was  in  mortal  fear  of  that  truculent  slum- 
berer;  but  sleep  lessens  the  awe  thieves  feel,  or 
heroes  inspire.  She  has  taken  the  pocket-book 
— she  has  fled  with  the  booty — she  is  in  Mrs. 
Crane's  apartment,  not  five  minutes  after  Mrs. 
Crane  has  regained  its  threshold. 

Rapidly  the  jealous  woman  ransacked  the  pock- 
et-book— started  to  see,  elegantly  worked  with 
gold  threads,  in  the  lining,  the  words,  "  Sou- 
viExs-Toi  DE  TA  Gabrielle" — BO  Other  letters, 
save  the  two,  of  which  Jasper  had  vouchsafed 
to  her  but  the  glimpse.  Over  these  she  huri'ied 
her  glittering  eyes ;  and  when  she  restored  them 
to  their  place,  and  gave  back  the  book  to  Brid- 
gett, who  stood  by,  breathless  and  listening,  lest 
Jasper  should  awake,  her  face  was  colorless,  and 
a  kind  of  shudder  seemed  to  come  over  her. 
Left  alone,  she  rested  her  face  on  her  hand,  her 
lips  moving  as  if  in  self-commune.  Then  noise- 
lessly she  glided  down  the  stairs,  regained  the 
street,  and  hurried  fast  upon  her  way. 

Bridgett  was  not  in  time  to  rest^orc  the  book 
to  Jasper's  pocket,  for  when  she  re-entered  he 
was  turning  round  and  stretching  himself  be- 
tween sleep  and  waking.  But  she  dropped  the 
book  skillfully  on  the"  floor,  close  beside  the 
sofa ;  it  would  seem  to  him,  on  waking,  to  have 
fallen  out  of  the  pocket  in  the  natural  move- 
ments of  sleep. 

xVnd  in  fact,  when  he  rose,  dinner  now  on  the 
table,  he  picked  up  the  pocket-book  without  sus- 
picion.    But  it  was  lucky  that  Bridgett  had  not 


WHAT  VTLLL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


117 


waited  for  the  opportnnitv  suggested  bv  her  mis- 
tress. For  when  Jasper  put  on  tlie  dressing- 
gown,  he  observed  that  his  coat  wanted  brush- 
inf ;  and,  in  giving  it  to  the  servant  for  that 
purpose,  he  used  the  precaution  of  taking  out 
the  pocket-book,  and  placing  it  in  some  other 
receptacle  of  his  dress. 

Mrs.  Crane  returned  in  less  than  two  hours 
— returned  with  a  disappointed  look,  which  at 
once  prepared  Jasper  for  the  intelligence  that 
the  birds  to  be  entrapped  had  flown. 

"They  went  away  this  afternoon,"  said  Mi-s. 
Crane,  tossing  Jasper's  sovereigns  on  the  table, 
as  if  they  burned  her  fingers.  ''But  leave  the 
fugitives  to  me.     I  will  find  them." 

Jasper  relieved  his  angrj-  mind  by  a  series 
of  guilty  but  meaningless  ex])letives ;  and  then, 
seeing  no  farther  use  to  which  ilrs.  Crane's  wits 
could  be  applied  at  present,  finished  the  remain- 
der of  her  brandy,  and  wished  her  good-night, 
with  a  promise  to  call  again,  but  without  any 
intimation  of  his  ovm  address.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  !Mrs.  Crane  once  more  summoned 
Bridget  t. 

"  You  told  me  last  week  that  your  brother- 
in-law,  Simpson,  wished  to  go  to  America,  that 
he  had  the  offer  of  employment  there,  but  that 
he  could  not  afford  the  fare  of  the  voyage.  I 
promised  I  would  help  him  if  it  was  a  senice 
to  you." 

"  You  are  a  liangel,  iliss !"  exclaimed  Brid- 
gett,  dropping  a  low  courtesy — so  low  that  it 
seemed  as  if  she  was  going  on  her  knees.  "  And 
may  you  have  your  deserts  in  the  next  blessed 
world,  where  there  are  no  black-hearted  vil- 
lings." 

"Enough,  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  recoil- 
ing, perhaps,  from  that  grateful  benediction. 
"You  have  been  faithful  to  me,  as  none  else 
have  ever  been;  but  this  time  I  do  not  sene 
you  in  return  so  much  as  I  meant  to  do.  The 
service  is  reciprocal,  if  your  brother-in-law  will 
do  me  a  favor.  He  takes  with  him  his  daugh- 
ter, a  mere  child.  Bridgett,  let  them  enter  tlieir 
names  on  the  steam-vessel  as  "William  and  So- 
phy Waife ;  they  can,  of  course,  resume  their 
own  name  when  the  voyage  is  over.  There  is 
the  fare  for  them,  and  something  more.  Pooh, 
no  thanks.  I  can  spare  the  money.  See  your 
brother-in-law  the  first  thing  in  the  morning; 
and  remember  they  go  by  the  next  vessel,  which 
sails  from  Liverpool  on  Thursday." 


CIIAPTER  XVJ. 

Those  poor  Pocket  Cannibals,  how  society  does  persecute 
them  !  Even  a  menial  servant  would  give  warning  if 
disturbed  at  his  meals.  But  your  Man-eater  is  the 
meekest  of  creatures ;  he  will  never  give  warning,  and 
— nt  t  often  take  it 

Whatever  the  source  that  had  supplied  Jas- 
per Losely  with  the  money,  from  which  he  had 
so  generously  extracted  the  sovereigns  intended 
to  console  Waife  for  the  loss  of  Sophy,  that 
source  either  dried  up,  or  became  wholly  inade- 
quate to  his  wants.  For  elasticity  was  the  feli- 
citous peculiarity  of  Mr.  Losely's  wants.  They 
accommodated  themselves  to  the  state  of  his 
finances  with  mathematical  precision,  alwayJ 
requiring  exactly  five  times  the  amount  of  the 
means  placed  at  his  disposal.-   From  a  shilling 


to  a  million,  multiply  his  wants  by  five  times 
the  total  of  his  means,  and  you  arrived  at  a  just 
conclusion.  Jasper  called  upon  Poole,  who  was 
slowly  recovering,  but  unable  to  leave  his  room  ; 
and  finding  that  gentleman  in  a  more  melan- 
choly state  of  mind  than  usual,  occasioned  by  Un- 
cle Sam's  brutal  declaration,  that "  if  responsible 
for  his  godson's  sins,  he  was  not  responsible  for 
his  debts  ;"  and  that  he  really  thought  "  the  best 
thing  Samuel  Dolly  could  do  was  to  go  to  pris- 
on for  a  short  time,  and  get  whitewaslied;"  Jas- 
per began  to  lament  his  own  hard  fate  :  "  And 
just  when  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Paris  has 
come  here  on  purpose  to  see  me,"  said  the  lady- 
killer  ;  "  a  lady  who  keeps  her  carriage,  Dolly ! 
Would  have  introduced  you  if  you  had  been  well 
enough  to  go  out.  One  can't  be  always  borrow- 
ing of  her.  I  wish  one  could.  There's  Jlother 
Crane  would  sell  her  gown  off  her  back  for  me, 
but,  'Gad,  Sir,  she  snubs,  and  positively  fright- 
ens me.  Besides,  she  lays  traps  to  demean  me 
— set  me  to  work  like  a  clerk  (not  that  I  would 
hurt  your  feelings,  Dolly.  If  you  are  a  clerk, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  you  are  a  gentleman 
at  heart).  Well,  then,  we  are  both  done  up  and 
cleaned  out ;  and  my  decided  opinion  is,  that 
nothing  is  left  but  a  bold  stroke." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  bold  strokes,  but  I 
don't  see  any;  and  Uncle  Sam's  bold  stroke  of 
the  Fleet  Prison  is  not  at  all  to  mv  taste." 

"  Fleet  Prison !  Fleet  fiddlestic'k  !  No.  You 
have  never  been  in  Russia  ?  Why  should  we 
not  go  there  both?  ^ly  Paris  friend,  Madame 
Caumartin,  was  going  to  Italy,  but  her  plans  are 
changed,  and  she  is  now  all  for  St.  Petersburg. 
She  will  wait  a  few  days  for  you  to  get  Mell. 
We  will  all  go  together  and  enjoy  ourselves. 
The  Russians  doat  upon  whist.  AVe  shall  get 
into  their  swell  sets,  and  live  like  princes." 
Therewith  Jasper  launched  forth  on  the  text  of 
Russian  existence,  in  such  glowing  terms,  thr.t 
Dolly  Poole  shut  his  aching  eyes,  and  fancied 
himself  sledging  down  the  Neva,  covered  with 
furs — a  countess  waiting  for  him  at  dinner,  and 
counts  in  dozens  ready  to  offer  bets,  to  a  fab- 
ulous amount,  that  Jasper  Losely  lost  the 
mbber. 

Having  lifted  his  friend  into  this  region  of 
aerial  castles,  Jasper  then,  descending  into  the 
practical  world,  wound  up  with  the  mournful 
fact  that  one  could  not  get  to  Petersburg,  nor, 
vv-hen  there,  into  swell  sets,  without  having  some 
little  capital  on  hand. 

"I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  iladame  Cau- 
martin lives  in  prime  style.  Get  old  Latham, 
your  employer,  to  discount  her  bill  at  three 
months'  date,  for  £500,  and  we  will  all  be  off 
in  a  crack."  Poole  shook  his  head.  "Old  La- 
tham is  too  knowing  a  file  for  that — a  foreigner  I 
He'd  want  security." 

"  I'll  be  security." 

Dolly  shook  his  head  a  second  time,  still  more 
emphatically  than  the  first. 

"But  you  say  he  does  discount  paper  —  gets 
rich  on  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  gets  rich  on  it,  which  he  might  not  do 
if  he  discounted  the  paper  you  propose.  No  of- 
fense." 

"  Oh,  no  offense  among  friends !  You  have 
taken  him  bills  which  he  has  discounted  ?" 

"  Yes,  good  paper." 

"  Any  paj'cr  signed  by  good  names  is  good 


118 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


paper.     We  can  sign  good  names  if  we  know 
their  handwritings." 

Dolly  started  and  turned  white.     Knave  he 
was — cheat  at  cards,  blackleg  on  the  turf — but 
forgery  !  that  crime  was  new  to  him.    The  very 
notion  of  it  brought  on  a  return  of  fever.     And 
while  Jasper  was  increasing  his  malady  by  ar- 
guing with  his  apprehensions,  luckily  for  Poole, 
Uncle  Sam  came  in.     Uncle  Sam,  a  sagacious 
old  tradesman,  no  sooner  clapped  eyes  on  the 
brilliant  Losely  than  he  conceived  for  him  a 
distrustful    repugnance,    similar    to    that   with 
which  an  experienced  gander  may  regard  a  fox 
in  colloquy  with  its  gosling.     He  had  already 
learned  enough  of  his  godson's  ways  and  chosen 
society  to  be  assured  that  Samuel  Dolly  had  in- 
dulged in  very  anti-commercial  tastes,  and  been 
sadly   contaminated   by  very   anti-commercial 
friends.     He  felt  persuaded  that  Dolly's  sole 
chance  of  redemption  was  in  working  on  his 
mind  while  his  body  was  still  suffering,  so  that 
Poole  might,  on  recovery,  break  with  all  former 
associations.     On  seeing  Jasper  in  the  dress  of 
an  exquisite,  with  the  thews  of  a  prize-fighter. 
Uncle    Sam   saw   the    stalwart   incarnation  of 
all  the  sins  which  a  godfather  had  vowed  that 
a  godson   should   renounce.      Accordingly,  he 
made  himself  so  disagreeable,  that  Losely,  in 
great  disgust,   took  a  hasty  departure.      And 
Uncle  Sam,  as  he  helped  the  nurse  to  plunge 
Dolly  into  his  bed,  had  the  brutality  to  tell  his 
nephew,  in  very  plain  terms,  that  if  ever  he 
found  that  Brummagem  gent  in  Poole's  rooms 
again,  Poole  would  never  again  see  the  color  of 
Uncle  Sam's  money.     Dolly  beginning  to  blub- 
ber, the  good  man,  relenting,  patted  him  on  the 
back,  and  said,  "  But  as  soon  as  you  are  well, 
I'll  carry  you  with  me  to  my  country  box,  and 
keep  you  out  of  harm's  way  till  I  find  you  a 
wife,  who  will  comb  your  head  for  you  !" — at 
which  cheering  prospect  Poole  blubbered  more 
dolefully  than  before.     On  retiring  to  his  own 
lodging  in  the  Gloucester  cofit'ee-house.  Uncle 
Sam,  to  make  all  sure,  gave  positive  orders  to 
Poole's  landlady,  who  respected  in  Uncle  Sam 
the  man  who  might  pay  what  Poole  owed  to 
her,  on  no  account  to  let  in  any  of  Dolly's  prof- 
ligate friends,  but  especially  the  chap  he  had 
found  there  ;    adding,   "  'Tis  as  much  as  my 
nephew's  life  is  worth,  and,  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  as  much  as  your  bill  is."     According- 
ly, when  Jasper  presented  himself  at  Poole's 
door  again  that  very  evening,  the  landlady  ap- 
j)rised  him  of  her  orders  ;  and,  proof  to  his  in- 
sinuating remonstrances,  closed  the  door  in  his 
face.     But  a  French  chronicler  has  recorded 
that,   when    Henry   IV.   was    besieging  Paris, 
though  not  a  loaf  of  bread  could  enter  the 
walls,  love-letters  passed  between  city  and  camp 
as-  easily   as   if  there   had   been  no   siege  at 
all.    And  does  not  JMercury  preside  over  money 
as  well  as  love  ?     Jasper,  spurred  on  by  Ma- 
dame Caumartin,  who  was  exceedingly  anxious 
to  exchange  London  for  Petersburg  as  soon  as 
possible,  maintained  a  close  and  frequent  cor- 
respondence with  Poole  by  the  agency  of  the 
nurse,  who  luckily  was  not  above  being  bribed 
by  shillings.     Poole  continued  to  reject  the  vil- 
lainy proposed  by  Jasper;  but,  in  the  course  of 
the  correspondence,  he  threw  out,  rather  inco- 
herently— for  his  mind  began  somewhat  to  wan- 
der— a  scheme  equally  flagitious,  which  Jasper, 


aided  perhaps  by  Madame  Caumartin's  yet  keen- 
er wit,  caught  up,  and  quickly  reduced  to  delib- 
erate method.  Old  Mr.  Latham,  among  tlie  bills 
he  discounted,  kejit  those  of  such  more  bashful 
customers  as  stipulated  that  their  resort  to  tem- 
porary accommodation  should  be  maintained  a 
profound  secret  in  his  own  safe.  Among  these 
bills  Poole  knew  that  there  was  one  for  £1000, 
given  by  a  young  nobleman  of  immense  estates, 
but  so  entailed  that  he  could  neither  sell  nor 
mortgage,  and  therefore  often  in  need  of  a  few 
hundreds  for  pocket-money.  The  nobleman's 
name  stood  high.  His  fortune  was  universally 
known  ;  his  honor  unimpeachable.  A  bill  of 
his  any  one  would  cash  at  sight.  Could  Poole 
but  obtain  that  bill !  It  had,  he  believed,  only  a 
few  weeks  yet  to  run.  Jasper  or  Madame  Cau- 
martin might  get  it  discounted  even  by  Lord 

's  own  banker ;  and  if  that  were  too  bold, 

by  any  professional  bill-broker;  and  all  three 
be  off  before  a  suspicion  could  arise.  But  to 
get  at  that  safe  a  false  key  might  be  necessary. 
Poole  suggested  a  waxen  impression  of  the  lock. 
Jasper  sent  him  a  readier  contrivance — a  queer- 
looking  tool  that  looked  an  instrument  of  tor- 
ture. All  now  necessary  was  for  Poole  to  re- 
cover sufficiently  to  return  to  business,  and  to 
get  rid  of  Uncle  Sam  by  a  promise  to  run  down 
to  the  country  the  moment  Poole  had  conscien- 
tiously cleared  some  necessary  arrears  of  work. 
While  this  correspondence  went  on,  Jasper 
Losely  shunned  Mrs.  Crane,  and  took  his  jncals 
and  spent  his  leisure  hours  with  Madame  Cau- 
martin. He  needed  no  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers to  feel  himself  at  home  there.  Madame 
Caumartin  had  really  taken  a  showy  house  in  a 
genteel  street.  Her  own  apjiearance  was  emi- 
nently what  the  French  call  distinr/uee.  Dress- 
ed to  perfection,  from  head  to  foot ;  neat  and 
finished  as  an  epigram.  Her  face,  in  shape  like 
a  thorough-bred  cobra  capella  —  low,  smooth 
frontal,  widening  at  the  summit ;  chin  tapering, 
but  jaw  strong;  teeth  marvelously  white,  small, 
and  with  points  sharp  as  those  in  the  maw  of  the 
fish  called  the  "  Sea  Devil ;"  eyes  like  dark  em- 
eralds, of  which  the  pupils,  when  she  was  angry 
or  when  she  was  scheming,  retreated  upward  to- 
ward the  temples,  emitting  a  luminous  green 
ray  that  shot  through  space  like  the  gleam  that 
escapes  from  a  dark  lantern ;  complexion  su- 
perlatively feminine — call  it  not  pale,  but  white, 
as  if  she  lived  on  blanched  almonds,  peach- 
stones,  and  arsenic ;  hands  so  fine  and  so  blood- 
less, with  fingers  so  pointedly  taper  there  seem- 
ed stings  at  their  tips  ;  manners  of  one  who  had 
ranged  all  ranks  of  society,  from  highest  to  low- 
est, and  dujjcd  the  most  wary  in  each  of  them. 
Did  she  please  it,  a  crown  prince  might  have 
thought  her  youth  must  have  passed  in  the 
chambers  of  porphyry !  Did  she  i)lease  it,  an 
old  soldier  would  have  sworn  the  creature  had 
been  a  vivandicre.  In  age,  perhaps  bordering  on 
forty.  Slie  looked  younger ;  but  had  she  been 
a  hundred  and  twenty  she  could  not  have  been 
more  wicked.  Ah !  happy,  indeed,  for  Sophy, 
if  it  were  to  save  her  youth  from  ever  being  fos- 
tered in  elegant  boudoirs  by  those  bloodless 
hands,  that  the  crippled  vagabond  had  borne 
her  away  from  Arabella's  less  cruel  unkindness  ; 
better  fiir  even  Rugge's  village  stage  ;  better  far 
stealthy  by-lanes,  feigned  names,  and  the  eru- 
dite tricks  of  Sir  Isaac ' 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


119 


But  Jtill  it  is  due  even  to  Jasper  to  state  here 
that  in  Losely's  recent  desifjn  to  transfer  Soiihy 
from  Waife's  care  to  that  of  iNIadame  Caumar- 
tin,  the  8har{)er  harbored  no  idea  of  a  villainy 
so  execrable  as  the  character  of  the  Parisienne 
led  the  jealous  Arabella  to  suspect.  But  his 
real  object  in  getting  the  child,  at  that  time, 
once  more  into  his  power  was  (whatever  its  na- 
ture) harmless  compared  with  the  mildest  of 
Arabella's  dark  doubts.  But  still,  if  Sophy  had 
been  regained,  and  the  object  on  regaining  her 
foiled  (as  it  probably  would  have  been),  what 
then  might  have  become  of  her  ? — lost,  perhaps, 
forever  to  Waife — in  a  foreign  land,  and  under 
such  guardianship  ?    Grave  question,  which  Jas 


he's  very  anxious  to  get  me  out  of  Lunnon  ;  and 
when  I  threw  in  a  word  about  Mr.  Losely  (slvly, 
my  good  lady — ^just  to  see  its  effect),  he  grew  as 
white  as  that  paper ;  and  then  he  began  strut- 
ting and  swelling,  and  saying  that  Mr.  Losely 
would  be  a  great  man,  and  that  he  should  be  a 
great  man,  and  that  he  did  not  care  for  my 
mone\- — he  could  get  as  much  money  as  he 
lilced.  That  looks  guilty,  my  dear  ladv.  And, 
oh,"  cried  Uncle  Sam, 'clasping  his  hands,  '-J 
do  fear  that  he's  thinking  of  something  worse 
than  he  has  ever  done  before,  and  his  brain 
can't  stand  it.  And,  ma'am,  he  has  a  great  re- 
spect for  you ;  and  you've  a  friendship  for  Mr. 
Loselv.      Now  just   suppose    that  ]Mr.  Losely 


per  Losely,  who  exercised  so  little  foresight  in    should  have  been  thinking  of  what  vour  flash 


sporting  gents  call  a  harmless  spree,  and  my 
sister's  son  should,  being  cracky,  construe  it  into 
something  criminal.  Oh,  ilrs.  Crane,  do  go  and 
see  Mr.  Losely,  and  tell  him  that  Samuel  Dolly 
is  not  safe — is  not  safe!" 

"  Much  better  that  I  should  go  to  your  neph- 
ew," said  Mrs.  Crane;  "and  with  your  leave  I 
will  do  so  at  once.     Let  me  see  him  alone. 


the  paramount  question,  viz.,  what,  some  day  or 
other,  will  become  of  himself,  was  not  likely  to 
rack  his  brains  by  conjecturing  I 

Meanwhile  Jlrs.  Crane  was  vigilant.  The  de- 
tective police-officer,  sent  to  her  by  I\Ir.  Rugge, 
could  not  give  her  the  information  which  Eugge 
desired,  and  which  she  did  not  longer  need. 
She  gave  the  detective  some  information  re- 
specting Madame  Caumartin.  One  day,  toward  I  Where  shall  I  find  you  aftenvard  ?' 
the  evening,  she  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  |  "At  the  Gloucester  Coffee-house.  Oh^  my 
L'ncle  Sam.  He  called  ostensibly  to  thank  her  dear  lady,  how  can  I  thank  you  enon"-h.  The 
for  her  kindness  to  his  godson  and  nephew;  and  ,  boy  can  be  nothing  to  you;  but  to  me,  he's  my 
to  beg  her  not  to  be  oftejided  if  he  had  been  |  sister's  son — the  blackguardT' 
rude  to  Mr.  Losely,  who,  he  understood  from 
Dolly,  was  a  particular  friend  of  hers.  "  You 
see,  ma'am,  Samuel  Dolly  is  a  weak  young  man, 
and  easily  led  astray ;  but,  luckily  for  himself, 
lie  has  no  money  and  no  stomach.  So  he  may 
repent  in  time ;  and  if  I  could  find  a  wife  to 
manage  him,  he  has  not  a  bad  head  for  the 
main  chance,  and  may  become  a  fjractical  man. 
Repeatedly  I  have  told  him  he  should  go  to 
prison,  but  that  was  only  to  frighten  him — fact 
is,  I  want  to  get  him  safe  down  into  the  coun- 
try, and  he  don't  take  to  that.  So  I  am  forced 
to  say,  Oly  box,  home-brewed  and  south-down, 
Samuel  Dolly,  or  a  Lunnon  jail,  and  debtors' 
allowance.'  iMust  give  a  young  man  his  choice, 
my  dear  ladv." 


CHAPTER  XYIL 

Dices  laborantes  in  uno 

I'enelopen  vitreamque  Circen. — IIoeat. 

Mbs.  Crane  found  Poole  in  his  little  sitting- 
room,  hung  round  with  prints  of  opera-dancers, 
prize-fighters,  race-horses,  and  the  dog  Billy. 
Samuel  Dolly  was  in  full  dress.  His  cheeks, 
usually  so  pale,  seemed  much  flushed.  He  was 
evidently  in  a  state  of  high  excitement,  bowed 
extremely  low  to  Mrs.  Crane,  called  her  Count- 
ess, asked  if  she  had  been  lately  on  the  Conti- 


nent,  and  if  she  knew  Madame  Caumartin  ;  and 

3Irs.  Crane,  obsening  that  what  he  said  was  \  Avhether  the  nobility  at  St.  Petersburg  were  jol- 

extremely  sensible,  Uncle  Sam  warmed  in  his  '.  ly,  or  stuck-up  fellows,  who  gave  themselves  airs 

confidence.  ]  — not  waiting  for  her  answer.     In  fact  his  mind 

"  And  I  thought  I»had  him,  till  I  found  ]\Ir.  \  was  unquestionably  disordered. 


Losely  in  his  sick-room  ;  but  ever  since  that 
day,  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  the  lad  has  had 
something  on  his  mind,  which  I  don't  half  like 


Arabella  Crane  abruptly  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "  You  are  going  to  the  gallows,"  she 
said,  suddenly.      "  Down  on  vour  knees  and  tell 


—  cracky,  I  think,  my  dear  lady  —  cracky.     I  ;  me  all,  and  I  will  keep  your  secret,  and  save 
suspect  that  old  nurse  passes  letters.     I  taxed  |  you  ;  lie — and  you  are  lost!" 


her  with  it,  and  she  immediately  wanted  to  take 
her  Bible-oath,  and  smelt  of  gin  —  two  things 
which,  taken  together,  look  guilty." 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  much  in- 
terested, "  if  ;Mr.  Losely  iind  Mr.  Poole  do  cor- 
respond, what  then  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,  ma'am.  Ex- 
cuse me  ;  I  don't  wish  to  disparage  Mr.  Losely 
— a  dashing  gent,  and  nothing  worse,  I  dare  say. 
But  certain  sure  I  am  that  lie  has  put  into  Sam- 
uel Dolly's  head  something  which  has  cracked  it ! 
There  is  the  lad  now  up  and  dressed,  when  he 
ought  to  be  in  bed,  and  swearing  he'll  go  to  old 
Latham's  to-moiTow,  and  that  long  arrears  of 
work  are  on  his  conscience  !  Never  heard  him 
talk  of  conscience  before  —  that  looks  guilty ! 
And  it  does  not  frighten  him  any  longer  wheii  I 
say  he  shall  go  to  prison  for  his  debts ;  and 


Poole  bui-st  into  tears,  and  dropped  on  his 
knees  as  he  was  told. 

In  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Crane  knew  all  that  she 
cared  to  know,  possessed  herself  of  Losely's  let- 
ters, and,  leaving  Poole  less  light-headed  and 
more  light-hearted,  she  hastened  to  Uncle  Sam 
at  the  Gloucester  Coft'ee-house.  "Take  your 
nephew  out  of  town  this  evening,  and  do  not 
let  him  from  your  sight  for  the  next  six  months. 
Hark  you,  he  will  never  be  a  good  man ;  but 
you  may  save  him  from  the  hulks.  Do  so. 
Take  my  advice."  She  was  gone  before  Uncle 
Sam  could  answer. 

She  next  proceeded  to  the  private  house  of 
the  detective  with  whom  she  had  before  con- 
ferred— this  time  less  to  give  than  to  receive 
information.  Not  half  an  hour  after  her  in- 
teniew  with  him,  Arabella  Crane  stood  in  the 


120 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


street  wherein  was  placed  the:  showy  house  of 
Madame  Caumartin.  The  lamps  in  the  street 
were  now  lighted — the  street,  even  at  day,  a  qui- 
et one,  was  comparatively  deserted.  All  the 
windows  in  the  French  woman's  house  were 
closed  with  shutters  and  curtains,  except  on  the 
drawing-room  floor.  From  those  the  lights 
Mitlrin  streamed  over  a  balcony  filled  with  gay 
plants — one  of  the  casements  was  partially  open. 
And  now  and  then,  where  the  watcher  stood,  she 
could  just  catch  the  glimpse  of  a  passing  form 
behind  the  muslin  draperies,  or  Iiear  the  sound  of 
some  louder  laugh.  In  her  dark-gray  dress,  and 
still  darker  mantle,  Arabella  Crane  stood  mo- 
tionless, her  eyes  fixed  on  those  windows.  The 
rare  foot-passenger  who  bnislied  by  her  turned 
involuntarily  to  glance  at  the  countenance  of 
one  so  still,  and  then  as  involuntarily  to  survey 
the  house  to  which  that  countenance  was  lifted. 
No  such  observer  so  incurious  as  not  to  hazard 
conjecture  what  evil  to  that  liouse  was  boded  by 
the  dark  lurid  eyes  that  watched  it  with  so  fix- 
ed a  menace.  Thus  she  remained,  sometimes, 
indeed,  moving  from  her  post,  as  a  sentry  moves 
from  his,  slowly  pacing  a  few  steps  to  and  fro, 
returning  to  the  same  place,  and  again  motion- 
less; thus  she  remained  for  hours.  Evening 
deepened  into  night — night  grew  near  to  dawn ; 
she  was  still  there  in  that  street,  and  still  her 
eyes  were  on  that  house.  At  length  the  door 
opened  noiselessly — a  tall  man  tripped  forth 
with  a  light  step,  and  humming  the  tune  of  a 
gay  French  chanson.  As  lie  came  straight  to- 
v.'ard  the  spot  where  Arabella  Crane  was  at 
watch,  from  her  dark  mantle  stretched  forth  her 
long  arm  and  lean  hand,  and  seized  him.  He 
started,  and  recognized  her. 

"You  here !"  he  exclaimed — "you ! — at  such 
an  hour! — ^j'ou!" 

"I,  Jasper  Losely,  here  to  warn  you.  To- 
morrow the  officers  of  justice  will  be  in  that  ac- 
cursed house.  To-morrow  that  woman — not  for 
her  worst  crimes,  they  elude  the  law,  but  for 
her  least,  by  which  tlie  law  hunts  her  down- 
will  be  a  prisoner.  No — you  shall  not  ];ieturn 
to  warn  her  as  I  warn  you"  (for  Jasper  here 
broke  away,  and  retreated  some  steps  toward 
the  house) ;  "or,  if  you  do,  share  her  fate.  I 
cast  you  off." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Jasper,  halt- 
ing, till  with  slow  steps  she  regained  his  side. 
"iSpeak  more  plainly:  if  poor  ^Madame  Cau- 
martin has  got  into  a  scrape,  which  I  don't  think 
likely,  what  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"The  woman  you  call  Caumartin  fled  from 
Paris  to  escape  its  tribunals.  She  has  been 
tracked ;  the  French  Government  have  claimed 
her.    Ho  !  you  smile.    This  does  not  touch  you." 

"Certainly  not." 

"But  there  are  charges  against  her  from  En- 
glish tradesmen,  and  if  it  be  proved  that  you 
knew  her  in  her  proper  name — the  infamous  Ga- 
brielle  Desmarets — if  it  be  proved  that  you  have 
passed  oft'  the  French  billets  dc  banqne  that  she 
stole — if  you  were  her  accomplice  in  obtaining 
goods  under  her  false  name — if  you,  enriched 
by  her  robberies,  were  aiding  and  abetting  her 
as  a  swindler  here,  though  you  may  be  safe  from 
the  French  law,  will  you  be  safe  from  the  En- 
glisli  ?  You  may  be  innocent,  Jasjier  Losely ; 
if  so,  fear  nothing.  Y'ou  may  be  guilty  ;  if  so, 
hide,  or  follow  me  1" 


Jasper  paused.  Ilis  first  impulse  was  to  trust 
implicitly  to  jNIrs.  Crane,  and  lose  not  a  moment 
in  profiting  by  such  counsels  of  concealment  or 
flight  as  an  intelligence  so  superior  to  his  own 
could  suggest.  But  suddenly  rememberiug  that 
Poole  had  undertaken  to  get  the  bill  for  £1000 
by  the  next  day — that  if  flight  were  necessary, 
there  was  yet  a  chance  of  flight  with  booty — his 
constitutional  hardihood,  and  the  grasping  cu- 
pidity by  which  it  was  accompanied,  made  him 
resolve  at  least  to  hazard  the  delay  of  a  few 
hours.  And  after  all,  miglit  not  Mrs.  Crane  ex- 
aggerate ?  Was  not  this  the  counsel  of  a  jeal- 
ous woman  ?  "  Pray,"  said  he,  moving  on,  and 
fixing  quick  keen  eyes  on  her  as  she  walked  by 
his  side,  "  pray,  how  did  you  learn  all  these  par- 
ticulars ?" 

"From  a  detective  policeman  employed  to 
discover  Sophy.  In  confeiTing  with  him,  the 
name  of  Jasper  Losely  as  her  legal  protector 
was  of  course  stated :  that  name  was  already 
coupled  with  the  name  cf  the  false  Caumartin. 
Thus,  indirectly,  the  child  you  would  have  con- 
signed to  that  woman,  saves  you  from  sharing 
that  woman's  ignominy  and  doom." 

"  Stutt"!"  said  Jasper,  stubbornly,  though  he 
winced  at  her  words;  "I  don't,  on  reflection, 
see  that  any  thing  can  be  proved  against  me.  I 
am  not  bound  to  know  why  a  lady  changes  her 
name,  nor  how  she  comes  by  her  money.  And 
as  to  her  credit  with  tradesmen — nothing  to 
speak  of;  most  of  what  she  has  got  is  paid  for — 
what  is  not  paid  for  her,  is  less  than  tlie  worth 
of  her  goods.  Pooh !  I  am  not  so  easily  fright- 
ened— much  obliged  to  you  all  the  same.  Go 
home  now;  'tis  horridly  late.  Good-night,  or 
rather  good-morning." 

"Jasper,  mark  me!  if  you  see  that  woman 
again — if  you  attempt  to  save  or  screen  her — I 
shall  know,  and  you  lose  in  me  your  last  friend 
— last  hope — last  plank  in  a  devouring  sea!" 

These  words  were  so  solemnly  uttered  that 
they  thrilled  the  hard  heart  of  the  reckless  man. 
"  I  have  no  wish  to  screen  or  save  her,"  he  said, 
with  selfish  sincerity.  "And  after  what  you 
have  said,  I  would  as  soon  enter  a  fire-ship  as 
that  house.  But  let  me  have  some  hours  to 
consider  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"Yes,  consider — I  shall* expect  you  to-mor- 
row." 

He  went  his  way  tip  the  twilight  streets  to- 
ward a  new  lodging  he  had  hired  not  far  from 
the  showy  house.  She  drew  her  mantle  closer 
round  her  gaunt  figm-e,  and,  taking  the  opposite 
direction,  threaded  thoroughfares  yet  lonelier, 
till  she  gained  her  door,  and  was  welcomed  back 
bv  the  faithful  Bridgett. 


CHxiPTER  XVm. 

Hope  tells  a  flattering  tale  to  Mr.  Paigge.  He  is  iinde- 
Ci-ived  by  a  Solicitor,  and  left  to  mourn  ;  but  in  turn, 
though  unconsciously,  Mr.  Rugge  deceives  the  Solicit, 
or,  and  the  Solicitor  deceives  his  client,  which  is  6s.  Si. 
iu  the  Solicitor's  pocket. 

The  next  morning  Arabella  Crane  was  scarce- 
ly dressed  before  Mr.  Rugge  knocked  at  her  door. 
On  the  preWous  day  the  Detective  had  informed 
him  that  William  and  Sophy  Waifs  were  dis- 
covered to  have  sailed  for  America.  Frantic, 
the  unhappy  manager  rushed  to  the  steam-pack- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


121 


et  office,  and  was  favored  by  an  inspection  of 
the  books,  whicli  confirmed  the  hateful  tidinjis. 
As  if  in  mockery  of  his  bereaved  and  defrauded 
state,  on  returning  home  he  found  a  polite  note 
from  Mr.  Gotobcd,  requestinc;  him  to  call  at  the 
office  of  that  eminent  solicitor,  with  reference 
to  a  younp;  actress  named  trophy  Waife,  and 
hinting  "  that  the  visit  might  jirove  to  his  ad- 
vantage !"  Dreaming  for  a  wild  moment  that 
Mr.  Losely,  conscience-stricken,  might  through 
tliis  solicitor  pay  back  his  £100,  he  rushed  incon- 
tinent to  ^Ir.  Gotobed's  othce,  and  was  at  once 
admitted  into  the  presence  of  that  stately  prac- 
titioner. 

"I  i)cg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Gotobcd, 
with  formal  politeness,  "but  I  heard  a  day  or 
two  ago  accidentally  from  my  head-clerk,  who 
had  learned  it  also  accidentally  from  a  sporting 
friend,  that  you  were  exhibiting  at  Humberston, 
during  the  race-week,  a  young  actress  named  on 
the  play-bills  (here  is  one)  'Juliet  xVraminta,' 
and  whom,  as  I  am  informed,  yon  had  previous- 
ly exhibited  in  Surrey  and  elsewhere;  but  she 
was  supposed  to  have  relinquished  that  earlier 
engagement,  and  left  your  stage  with  her  grand- 
father, William  Waife.  I  am  instructed  by  a 
distinguished  client,  who  is  wealthy,  and  who, 
from  motives  of  mere  benevolence,  interests 
himself  in  the  said  William  and  Sophy  Waife, 
to  discover  their  residence.  I'leasc,  therefore, 
to  render  np  the  child  to  my  charge,  apprising 
me  also  of  the  address  of  her  grandfather,  if  he 
be  not  with  you ;  and  without  waiting  for  fur- 
ther instructions  from  my  client,  who  is  abroad, 
I  will  venture  to  say  that  any  sacrifice  in  the 
loss  of  your  juvenile  actress  will  be  most  liberal- 
ly compensated." 

"  Sir,"  cried  the  miserable  and  imprudent 
Rugge,  "I  paid  £100  for  that  fiendish  child— 
a  three  years'  engagement — and  I  have  been 
robbed.  Restore  me  the  £100,  and  I  will  tell 
you  wliere  she  is,  and  her  vile  grandfather  also." 
At  hearing  so  bad  a  character  lavished  upon 
objects  recommended  to  his  client's  disinterest- 
ed charity,  the  wary  solicitor  drew  in  his  pecu- 
niary horns. 

"Mr.  Kugge,''  said  he,  "I  understand  from 
your  words  that  you  can  not  place  the  child  So- 
phy, alitis  Juliet  Araminta,  in  my  hands.  You 
ask  £100  to  inform  me  where  she  is.  Have  you 
a  lawful  claim  on  her?" 

"  Certainly,  Sir  ;  she  is  my  property." 
"  Then  it  is  quite  clear  that  though  you  may 
know  where  she  is,  you  can  not  get  at  her  your- 
self, and  can  not,  therefore,  place  her  in  my 
hands.     Perhaps  she  is — in  heaven!" 

"  Confound  her,  Sir!  no — in  America !  or  on 
the  seas  to  it." 
"Are  you  sure?" 

*'  I  have  just  come  from  the  steam-packet  of- 
fice, and  seen  the  names  in  their  book.  Will- 
iam and  So])hy  Waife  sailed  from  Liverpool 
last  Thursday  week." 

"  And  they  formed  an  engagement  with  you 
— received  your  money ;  broke  the  one,  abscond- 
ed with  the  other.     Bad  characters  indeed !" 

"  Bad !  you  may  well  say  that — a  set  of  swin- 
dling scoundrels,  "the  whole  kit  and  kin.  And 
the  ingratitude!"  continued  Rugge:  "I  was 
more  than  a  fatlier  to  that  child"  (he  began  to 
whimiicr) :  "  I  had  a  babe  of  my  own  once — 
died  of  convulsions  in  teething.     I  thought  that 


child  would  have  supplied  its  place,  and  I  dream- 
ed of  the  York  Tlieatre;  but" — here  his  voice 
was  lost  in  the  fiilds  of  a  marvelously  dirty  red 
pocket-handkerchief. 

Mr.  Gotobcd  having  now,  however,  learned 
all  that  he  cared  to  learn,  and  not  being  a  soft- 
hearted man  (first-rate  solicitors  rarely  are), 
here  pulled  out  his  watch  and  said, 

"Sir,  you  have  been  very  ill-treated,  I  per- 
ceive, i  must  wish  you  good-day ;  I  have  an 
engagement  in  the  City.  I  can  "not  help  you 
back  to  your  £100,  but  accc]it  this  triHe  (a  £5 
note)  for  your  loss  of  time  in  calling"  (ringing 
the  bell  violently).  "Door — show  out  this  gen- 
tleman." 

That  evening  Mr.  Gotobed  wrote  at  length  to 
Guy  Darrell,  informing  him  that,  after  great 
jtains  and  prolonged  research,  he  had  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  ascertain  that  the  strolling  play- 
er and  little  girl  whom  Mr.  Darrell  had  so  be- 
nevolently requested  him  to  look  up,  were  very 
bad  characters,  and  had  left  the  coinitry  for  the 
United  States,  as,  happily  for  England,  bad  char- 
acters were  wont  to  do. 

That  letter  reached  Guy  Darrell  when  he  was 
far  away,  amidst  the  forlorn  pomp  of  some  old 
Italian  city,  and  Lionel's  tale  of  the  little  girl  not 
very  fresh  in  his  gloomy  thoughts.  Naturally,  he 
supposed  that  the  boy  had  been  duped  by  a  pret- 
ty face  and  his  own  inexperienced  kindly  heart. 
And  so  and  so — why,  so  end  half  the  efforts  of 
men  who  intrust  to  others  the  troublesome  exe- 
cution of  humane  intentions  I  The  scales  of 
earthly  justice  are  poised  in  their  quivering  equi- 
librium, not  by  huge  hundred-weights,  but  by 
infinitesimal  grains,  needing  the  most  wary  cau- 
tion— the  most  considerate  patience — the  most 
delicate  touch,  to  arrange  or  readjust.  Few  of 
our  errors,  national  or  individual,  come  from  the 
design  to  be  unjust — most  of  them  from  sloth, 
or  incapacit}^  to  grapple  with  the  difficulties  of 
being  just.  Sins  of  commission  may  not,  per- 
haps, shock  the  retrospect  of  conscience.  Large 
and  obtrusive  to  view,  we  have  confessed,  mourn- 
ed, repented,  possibly  atoned  them.  Sins  of 
omission,  so  vailed  amidst  our  hourly  emotions 
— blent,  confused,  unseen,  in  the  conventional 
routine  of  existence  —  Alas!  could  these  sud- 
denly emerge  from  their  shadow,  group  togeth- 
er in  serried  mass  and  accusing  order — alas, 
alas  !  would  not  the  best  of  us  then  start  in  dis- 
may, and  would  not  the  proudest  humble  him- 
self at  the  Throne  of  Jlercy  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Joy,  nevertheless,  doeB  return  to  Mr.  Euggc ;  and  Tlope 
riow  inflicts  herself  on  Mrs.  C'niiie.  A  very  fine-look- 
injj  Hope,  too — six  feet  one — strong  as  Arliilles.  aud 
us  lleet  of  lout! 

But  we  have  left  !Mr.  Rugge  at  IMrs.  Crane's 
door ;  admit  him.  He  bursts  into  her  drawing- 
room,  wiping  his  brows. 

"  Ma'am,  they  are  off  to  America — !" 

"  So  I  have  heard.  You  are  fairly  entitled  to 
the  return  of  your  money — " 

"Entitled,  of  course  ;  but — " 

"  There  it  is ;  restore  to  me  the  contract  for 
the  child's  services." 

Rugge  gazed  on  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  and  could 


122 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


scarcely  believe  his  eyes.  He  darted  forth  his 
hand,  the  notes  receded  like  the  dagger  in  Mac- 
beth, "First  the  contract,"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 
Rugge  drew  out  his  greasy  pocket-book,  and  ex- 
tracted the  worthless  engagement. 

"Henceforth,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you 
have  no  right  to  complain;  and  whether  or  not 
the  girl  ever  again  fall  in  your  way,  your  claim 
over  her  ceases." 

"  The  gods  be  praised,  it  does,  ma'am  ;  I  have 
had  quite  enough  of  her.  But  you  are  every 
inch  a  lady,  and  allow  me  to  add  that  I  put  you 
on  my  free  list  for  life." 

Rugge  gone  ;  Arabella  Crane  summoned 
Bridgett  to  her  presence. 

"  Lor,  miss,"  cried  Bridgett,  impulsively, 
"  who'd  think  you'd  been  up  all  night  raking ! 
I  have  not  seen  you  look  so  well  this  many  a 
year." 

"Ah,"  said  Arabella  Crane,  "I  will  tell  you 
why.  I  have  done  what  for  many  a  year  I  nev- 
er thought  I  sliould  do  again — a  good  action. 
That  child — that  SojDhy — you  remember  how 
cruelly  I  used  her  ?" 

"Oh,  miss,  don't  go  for  to  blame  yourself; 
you  fed  her,  you  clothed  her,  when  her  own  fa- 
ther, the  villing,  sent  her  away  from  hisself  to 
you— you  of  all  people — you.  How  could  you  be 
caressing  and  fawning  on  his  child — their  chikl?" 

Mrs.  Crane  hung  her  head  gloomilv.  "  What 
is  past  is  past.  I  have  lived  to  save  that  child, 
and  a  curse  seems  lifted  from  my  soul.  Now 
listen :  I  shall  leave  London — England,  proba- 
bly this  evening.  You  will  keep  this  house;  it 
will  be  ready  for  me  any  moment  I  return.  The 
agent  who  collects  my  house-rents  Avill  give  you 
money  as  you  want  it.  Stint  not  yourself,  Brid- 
gett. I  have  been  saving,  and  saving,  and  sav- 
ing, for  dreary  years — nothing  else  to  interest 
me — ^and  I  am  richer  than  I  seem." 

"  But  where  are  you  going,  miss  ?"  said  Brid- 
gett, slowly  recovering  from  the  stupefaction  oc- 
casioned by  her  mistress's  announcement. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  care." 

"Oh,  gracious  stars!  is  it  with  that  dreadful 
Jasper  Losely? — it  is,  it  is.  You  are  crazed, 
you  are  bewitched,  miss !" 

"Possibly  I  am  crazed — possibly  bewitched; 
but  I  take  tliat  man's  life  to  mine  as  a  penance 
for  all  the  evil  mine  has  ever  known  ;  and  a  day 
or  two  since  I  should  have  said,  with  rage  and 
shame,  '  I  can  not  help  it ;  I  loathe  myself  that 
I  can  care  what  becomes  of  him.'  Now,  with- 
out rage,  without  shame,  I  say,  '  The  man  whom 
I  once  so  loved  shall  not  die  on  a  gibbet  if  I  can 
help  it ;  and,  please  Heaven,  help  it  I  will.' " 

The  grim  woman  folded  her  arms  on  her 
breast,  and  raising  her  head  to  its  full  height, 
there  was  in  her  face  and  air  a  stern  gloomy 
grandeur,  which  could  not  have  been  seen  with- 
out a  mixed  sensation  of  compassion  and  awe. 

"  Go,  now,  Bridgett ;  I  have  said  all.  He  will 
be  here  soon  ;  he  will  come — he  must  come — 
he  has  no  choice;  and  then — and  then — "  slie 
closed  her  eyes,  bowed  her  head,  and  shivered. 

Arabella  Crane  was,  as  usual,  right  iu  her  pre- 


dictions. Before  noon  Jasper  came — came,  not 
with  his  jocund  swagger,  but  with  that  sideling 
sinister  look — look  of  the  man  whom  the  world 
cuts — triumphantly  restored  to  its  former  place 
in  his  visage.  Madame  Caumartin  had  been 
arrested;  Poole  had  gone  into  the  country  with 
Uncle  Sam ;  Jasper  had  seen  a  police-officer  at 
the  door  of  his  own  lodgings.  He  slunk  away 
from  the  fashionable  thoroughfares  —  slunk  to 
the  recesses  of  Podden  Place — slunk  into  Ara- 
bella Crane's  prim  drawing-room,  and  said,  sul- 
lenlv,  "  All  is  up  ;  here  I  am !" 

Three  days  afterward,  in  a  quiet  street  in  a 
quiet  town  of  Belgium,  wherein  a  sharjjer,  striv- 
ing to  live  by  his  profession,  would  soon  become 
a  skeleton,  in  a  commodious  airy  apartment, 
looking  upon  a  magnificent  street,  the  reverse 
of  noisy,  Jasper  Losely  sat  secure,  innocuous, 
and  profoundly  miserable.  In  another  house, 
the  windows  of  which,  facing  those  of  Jasper's 
sitting-room,  from  an  upper  story,  commanded 
so  good  a  view  therein  that  it  placed  him  un- 
der a  surveillance  akin  to  that  designed  by  Mr. 
Bentham's  reformatory  Panopticon,  sat  Arabella 
Crane.  Whatever  her  real  feelings  toward  Jas- 
per Losely  (and  what  those  feelings  were  no 
virile  pen  can  presume  authoritatively  to  define 
— for  lived  there  ever  a  man  who  thoroughl}' — 
thoroughly  understood  a  woman  ?),  or  whatever 
in  earlier  life  might  have  been  their  recijirocated 
vows  of  eternal  love,  not  only  from  tlic  day  that 
Jasper,  on  his  return  to  his  native  shores,  pre- 
sented himself  in  Podden  Place,  had  their  inti- 
macy been  restricted  to  the  austerest  bounds  of 
friendship ;  but  after  Jasper  had  so  rudely  de- 
clined the  hand  which  now  fed  him,  Arabella 
Crane  had  probably  perceived  that  her  sole 
chance  of  retaining  intellectual  power  over  his 
lawless  being,  necessitated  the  utter  relinquish- 
ment of  every  hope  or  project  that  could  expose 
her  again  to  his  contempt.  Suiting  appear- 
ances to  reality,  the  decorum  of  a  separate  house 
was  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  that  author- 
ity with  which  the  rigid  nature  of  their  inter- 
course invested  her.  The  additional  cost  strain- 
ed her  pecuniary  resources,  but  she  saved  in  her 
own  accommodation  in  order  to  leave  Jasper  no 
cause  to  complain  of  any  stinting  in  his.  There, 
then,  she  sate  by  her  window,  herself  imseen, 
eying  him  in  his  opposite  solitude,  accepting 
for  her  own  life  a  barren  saci-ifice,  but  a  jealous 
sentinel  on  his.  Meditating  as  she  sate,  and  as 
slie  eyed  him  —  meditating  what  employment 
she  could  invent,  with  the  bribe  of  emoluments 
to  be  paid  furtively  by  her — for  those  strong 
hands  that  could  have  felled  an  ox,  but  were 
nerveless  in  turning  an  honest  penny — and  for 
that  restless  mind,  hungering  for  occupation, 
with  the  digestion  of  an  osti'ich  for  dice  and  de- 
bauch, riot  and  fraud,  but  queasy  as  an  ex- 
hausted dyspeptic  at  the  reception  of  one  inno- 
cent amusement,  one  honorable  toil.  But  while 
that  woman  still  schemes  how  to  rescue  from 
hulks  or  halter  that  execrable  man,  who  shall 
say  that  he  is  without  a  chance  ?     A  chance  he 

has — WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  AVITH  IT  ? 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


123 


BOOK    Y 


CHAPTER  I. 

Envy  \r\\\  be  a  science  when  it  learns  the  use  of  the  mi- 
croscope. 

WiiF.N  leaves  fall  and  flowers  fade,  great  peo- 
ple are  found  in  their  country  seals.  Look ! — 
that  is  Montfort  Court !  A  place  of  regal  mag- 
nificence, so  far  as  extent  of  i)ilc  and  amplitude 
of  domain  could  satisfy  the  pride  of  ownership, 
or  ins]iire  the  visitor  with  the  respect  due  to 
wealth  and  ]X)wer.  An  artist  could  have  made 
nothing  of  it.  The  Sumptuous  every  where — 
the  Picturesque  nowhere.  The  House  was  built  j 
in  the  reign  of  George  I.,  when  first  commenced  ! 
that  horror  of  the  Beautiful,  as  something  in  bad 
taste,  which,  agreeably  to  our  natural  love  of 
progress,  progressively  advanced  through  the 
reigns  of  succeeding  Georges.  An  enormous 
facade — in  dull  brown  brick — two  wings  and  a 
ceiitre,  with  double  flights  of  steps  to  the  hall 
door  from  the  carriage-sweep.  No  trees  allowed 
to  grow  too  near  the  house ;  in  front,  a  stately 
flatwith  stone  balustrades.  But  wherever  the 
eve  turned  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
park — miles  upon  miles  of  park ;  not  a  corn- 
tield  in  sight — not  a  roof-tree — not  a  spire — only 
those  latasilentta — still  widths  of  turf,  and,  some- 
what thinly  scattered  and  afar,  those  groves  of 
giant  trees.  The  whole  prospect  so  vast  and  so 
monotonous  that  it  never  tempted  you  to  take  a 
walk.  No  close-neighboring  ])oetic  thicket  into 
which  to  plunge,  uncertain  whither  you  would 
emerge  ;  no  devious  stream  to  follow.  The  very 
deer,  fat  and  heavy,  seemed  bored  by  pastures  it 
would  take  them  a  week  to  traverse.  People  of 
moderate  wishes  and  modest  fortunes  never  en- 
vied Montfort  Court;  they  admired  it — they 
were  proud  to  say  they  had  seen  it.  But  never 
did  they  say, 

"  Oh,  that  for  me  some  home' like  this  would  smile !" 
Not  so,  very — very  great  people  ! — they  rather 
coveted  than  admired.  Those  oak-trees  so  large, 
yet  so  undccayed — that  park,  eighteen  miles  at 
least  in  circumference — that  solid  palace  which, 
without  inconvenience,  could  entertain  and  stow 
away  a  king  and  his  whole  court — in  short,  all 
that  evidence  of  a  princely  territory,  and  a 
weighty  rent-roll,  made  English  dukes  respect- 
fully envious,  and  foreign  potentates  gratifying- 
]y  jealous. 

But  turn  from  the  front.  Oj^en  the  gate  in 
that  stone  balustrade.  Come  southward  to  the 
garden  side  of  the  house.  Lady  Montfort's 
flower-garden.  Yes ;  not  so  dull !  flowers,  even 
autumnal  flowers,  enliven  any  sward.  Still,  on 
so  large  a  scale,  and  so  little  relief;  so  little 
mystery  about  those  broad  gravel  walks ;  not  a 
winding  alley  any  where.  Oh  for  a  vulgar  sum- 
mer-house ;  for  some  alcove,  all  honey-suckle 
and  ivy  !  But  the  dahlias  are  splendid !  Very 
true ;  only  dahlias,  at  the  best,  are  such  unin- 
teresting prosy  things.  What  poet  ever  wrote 
upon  a  dahlia !  Surely  Lady  Montfort  might 
have  introduced  a  little  more  taste  here — shown 


a  little  more  fancy !  Lady  Montfort !  I  should 
like  to  see  my  lord's  face,  if  Lady  Montfort  took 
anv  such  liberty.  But  there  is  Lady  Montfort 
walking  slowly  along  that  l)road,  broad,  broad 
gravel  walk — those  s])lendid  daiilias,  on  either 
side,  in  their  set  parterres.  There  she  walks, 
in  full  evidence  from  all  those  si.\ty  remorseless 
windows  on  the  garden  front,  each  window  ex- 
actly like  the  other.  There  she  walks,  looking 
wistfully  to  the  far  end — ('tis  a  long  way  otf) — 
where,  hajipily,  tlicre  is  a  wicket  that  carries  a 
persevering  pedestrian  out  of  sight  of  the  sixty 
windows,  into  shady  walks,  toward  the  banks  of 
that  immense  piece  of  water,  two  miles  from  the 
house.  My  lord  has  not  returned  from  his  moor 
in  Scotland — My  lady  is  alone.  No  company 
in  the  house — it  is  like  saying,  "  No  aciiuaint- 
anceinacity."  But  the  retinue  in  full.  Though 
she  dined  alone,  she  might,  had  she  pleased, 
have  had  almost  as  many  servants  to  gaze  upon 
her  as  there  were  windows  now  staring  at  her 
lonely  walk,  with  their  glassy  spectral  eyes. 

Just  as  Lady  Montfort  gains  the  wicket  she 
is  overtaken  by  a  visitor,  walking  fast  from  the 
gravel  sweep  W  the  front  door,  where  he  has 
dismounted — where  he  has  caught  sight  of  her; 
any  one  so  dismounting  might  have  caught  sight 
of  her — could  not  help  it.  Gardens  so  tine,  were 
made  on  purpose  for  fine  persons  walking  in 
them  to  be  seen. 

"Ah,  Lady  Montfort,"  said  the  visitor,  stam- 
mering painfully,  "I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  at 
home." 

"At  home,  George!"  said  the  lady,  extend- 
ing her  hand;  "wiiere  else  is  it  likely  that  I 
should  be  found  ?  But  how  pale  you  are !  What 
has  happened?" 

She  seated  herself  on  a  bench,  under  a  cedar- 
tree,  just  without  the  wicket,  and  George  Mor- 
ley,  our  old  friend  the  Oxonian,  seated  himself 
by  her  side  familiarly,  but  with  a  certain  rever- 
ence. Lady  ISIontfort  was  a  few  years  older 
than  himself — his  cousin — he  had  known  her 
from  his  childhood. 

"What  has  happened!"  he  repeated,  "no- 
thing new.     I  have  just  come  from  visiting  the 
I  good  bishop." 

"  He  does  not  hesitate  to  ordain  you?" 

"  No — but  I  shall  never  ask  him  to  do  so." 

"My  dear  cousin,  are  you  not  overscrupu- 
lous ?  "  You  would  be  an  ornament  to  the  Church, 
'  sufficient  in  all  else  to  justify  your  compulsory 
j  omission  of  one  duty,  which  a  curate  could  per- 
I  form  for  vou." 

Morlev  shook  his  head  sadly.  "One  duty 
omitted!"  said  he.  "But  is  it  not  that  duty 
!  which  distinguishes  the  priest  from  the  layman? 
'  and  how  far  extends  that  duty  ?  ^  Wherever 
there  needs  a  voice  to  speak  the  Word ;  not  in 
'  the  pulpit  only,  but  at  the  hearth,  by  the  sick 
I  bed  ;  there  should  be  the  Pastor !  No— I  can 
,  not,  I  ought  not,  I  dare  not !  Incompetent  as 
1  the  laborer,  how  can  I  be  worthy  of  the  hire  ?" 
i  It  took  him  long  to  bring  out  these  words ;  his 


124 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


emotion  increased  his  infirmity.  Lady  Mont- 
fort  listened  with  an  exquisite  respect,  visible  in 
her  compassion,  and  paused  long  before  she  an- 
swered. 

Georae  Morley  was  the  younger  son  of  a  coim- 
try  gentleman,  with  a  good  estate  settled  upon 
the  elder  son.  George's  father  had  been  an 
intimate  friend  of  his  kinsman,  the  ilarquis  of 
Montfort  (predecessor  and  gi-andsire  of  the  pres- 
ent lord)  ;  and  the  Marquis  had,  as  he  thought, 
amply  provided  for  George  in  undertaking  to 
secure  to  him,  when  of  fitting  age,  the  living  of 
Humbcrston,  the  most  lucrative  preferment  in 
his  gift.  The  living  had  been  held  for  the  last 
fifteen  years  by  an  incumbent,  now  very  old, 
upon  the  honorable  understanding  that  it  was 
to  be  resigned  in  favor  of  George  should  George 
take  orders.  The  young  man  from  his  earliest 
childhood  thus  destined  to  the  Church,  devoted 
to  the  prospect  of  that  profession  all  his  studies, 
all  his  thoughts.  Xot  till  he  was  sixteen  did 
his  infirmity  of  speech  make  itself  seriously 
percejHible ;  and  then  elocution  masters  un- 
dertook to  cure  it — they  failed.  But  George's 
mind  continued  in  the  direction  toward  which  it 
had  been  so  systematically  biased.  Entering 
Oxford,  he  became  absorbed  in  its  academical 
shades.  Amidst  his  books  he  almost  forgot  the 
impediment  of  his  speech.  Shy,  taciturn,  and 
solitary,  he  mixed  too  little  with  others  to  have 
it  much  brought  before  his  own  notice.  He  car- 
ried off  prizes — he  took  higli  honors.  On  leav- 
ing the  university,  a  profound  theologian — an 
enthusiastic  Churchman — filled  with  the  most 
earnest  sense  of  the  pastor's  solemn  calling — lie 
was  thus  complimentarily  accosted  by  the  Arch- 
imandrite of  his  college,  "What  a  pity  you  can 
not  go  into  the  Church  !" 

"Can  not — but  I  am  going  into  the  Church." 

"You,  is  it  possible?  But  perhajjs  you  are 
sure  of  a  li\'ing — " 

"  Yes — Humberston." 

"  An  immense  living,  but  a  very  large  popu- 
lation. Certainly  it  is  in  the  bishop's  own  dis- 
cretionary power  to  ordain  you,  and  for  all  tlie 
duties  you  can  keep  a  curate.  But — "  The 
Don  stopped  short,  and  took  snuff. 

That  ''But"  said  as  plainly  as  words  could 
say,  "It  may  be  a  good  thing  for  you,  but  is  it 
fair  for  the  Church  ?" 

So  George  Morley,  at  least,  thought  that 
"But"  implied.  His  conscience  took  alarm. 
He  was  a  thoroughly  noble-hearted  man,  likely 
to  be  the  more  tender  of  conscience  where 
tempted  by  worldly  interests.  With  that  living 
he  was  ricli,  without  it  veiy  poor.  But  to  give 
up  a  calling,  to  the  idea  of  which  he  had  at- 
tached liimself  with  all  the  force  of  a  powerful 
and  zealous  nature,  was  to  give  up  the  whole 
scheme  and  dream  of  his  existence.  He  re- 
mained irresolute  for  some  time;  at  last  he 
wrote  to  the  present  Lord  Montfort,  intimating 
his  doubts,  and  relieving  the  JNIarquis  from  the 
engagement  which  his  lordship's  predecessor 
had  made.  The  present  Marquis  was  not  a 
man  capable  of  understanding  such  scruples. 
But,  luckily  perhaps  for  George  and  for  the 
Church,  the  larger  affairs  of  the  great  House  of 
Montfort  were  not  administered  by  the  Mar- 
quis. The  parliamentary  influences,  the  ec- 
clesiastical preferments,  together  with  the  prac- 
tical   direction    of  minor  agents   to   the    vast 


and  complicated  estates  attached  to  the  title, 
were  at  that  time  under  the  direction  of  I\Ir. 
Carr  Vipont,  a  powerful  member  of  Parliament, 
and  husband  to  that  Lady  Selina  whose  conde- 
scension had  so  disturbed  the  nerves  of  Frank 
A^ance  the  artist.  Mr.  Carr  Vipont  governed 
tliis  vice-royalty  according  to  the  rules  and  tra- 
ditions by  which  the  House  of  Montfort  had  be- 
come great  and  prosperous.  For  not  only  every 
state,  but  every  great  seigniorial  House  has  its 
hereditary  maxims  of  policy :  not  less  the  House 
of  ]\Iontfort  than  the  House  of  Hapsburg.  Now 
the  House  of  Montfort  made  it  a  rule  that  all 
admitted  to  be  members  of  the  family  should 
help  each  other;  that  the  head  of  the  House 
should  never,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  suffer  any 
of  its  branches  to  decay  and  wither  into  pover- 
ty. The  House  of  JNIontfort  also  held  it  a  duty 
to  foster  and  make  tlie  most  of  every  species  of 
talent  that  .could  swell  the  influence,  or  adorn 
the  annals  of  the  family.  Having  rank,  having 
wealth,  it  sought  also  to  secure  intellect,  and  to 
knit  together  into  solid  union,  throughout  all 
ramifications  of  kinship  and  cousinliood,  each 
variety  of  repute  and  power  that  could  root  the 
ancient  tree  more  firmly  in  the  land.  Agreea- 
bly to  this  traditional  policy,  Mr.  Carr  A'ipont 
not  only  desired  that  a  Vipont  ^lorley  should 
not  lose  a  very  good  thing,  but  that  a  ven,-  good 
thing  should  not  lose  a  Vipont  Morley  of  high 
academical  distinction — a  Vipont  INIorley  who 
might  be  a  bishop!  He  therefore  drew  up  an 
admirable  letter,  which  the  Marquis  signed — 
that  the  INIarquis  should  take  the  trouble  of 
copying  it  was  out  of  the  question — wherein 
Lord  ilontfort  was  made  to  express  great  admi- 
ration of  the  disinterested  delicacy  of  sentiment, 
which  proved  George  Vipont  jMorley  to  be  still 
more  fitted  to  the  cure  of  souls ;  and,  placing 
rooms  at  Montfort  Court  at  his  service  (the 
Marquis  not  being  himself  there  at  the  mo- 
ment), suggested  that  George  should  talk  the 
matter  over  with  the  present  incumbent  of  Hum- 
berston (tliat  town  was  not  many  miles  distant 
from  Montfort  Court),  who,  though  he  had  no 
impediment  in  his  speech,  still  never  himself 
preached  or  read  prayers,  owing  to  an  aft'ec- 
tion  of  the  trachea,  and  who  was,  nevertheless, 
a  most  eificient  clergyman.  George  IMorley, 
therefore,  had  gone  down  to  !Montfort  Court 
some  months  ago,  just  after  his  interview  with 
Mrs.  Crane.  He  had  then  accepted  an  invita- 
tion to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  the  liev.  Mr. 
Allsop,  the  Hector  of  Humberston — a  clergy- 
man of  the  old  school,  a  fair  scholar,  a  perfect 
gentleman,  a  man  of  the  highest  honor,  good- 
natured,  charitable,  but  who  took  pastoral  du- 
ties much  more  easily  than  good  clergymen  of 
the  new  school — be  they  high  or  low — are  dis- 
posed to  do.  Mr.  Allsop,  who  was  then  in  his 
eightieth  year,  a  bachelor  with  a  verv  good  fjr- 
tune  of  his  own,  was  perfectly  willing  to  fulfill 
the  engagement  on  M'hich  he  held  his  living, 
and  render  it  up  to  George  ;  but  he  was  touch- 
ed by  the  earnestness  with  which  George  as- 
sured him  that  at  all  events  he  would  not  con- 
sent to  displace  the  venerable  incumbent  from 
a  tenure  he  had  so  long  and  honorably  held — 
and  would  wait  till  the  living  was  vacated  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  Mr.  Allsop  con- 
ceived a  warm  aft'ection  for  the  young  scholar. 
He  had  a  grandniece  staying  with  him  on  a  vis- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


it,  who  less  openlv,  but  not  less  warmly,  shared 
that  affection;  ami  with  her  Geori^c  Morlcy  fell 
shylv  and  timorously  in  love.  With  that  livin;j; 
he'  woiikl  be  rich  enough  to  marry — without  it, 
no.  Without  it  he  had  nothing  but  a  fel- 
lowship, which  matrimony  would  forfeit,  and 
the  scanty  portion  of  a  country  squire's  youn- 
ger son.  Tlie  young  lady  herself  was  dowerless, 
ifor  Allsop's  fortune  was  so  settled  that  no  share 
of  it  would  come  to  his  grandniece.  Another 
reason  for  conscience  to  gulp  down  that  unhap- 
py imjicdiment  of  speech!  Certainly,  during 
this  visit,  ]\lorlcy's  scruples  relaxed ;  but  when 
he  returned  home  they  came  back  with  greater 
force  than  ever — with  greater  force,  because  he 
felt  that  now  not  only  a  sjiiritual  ambition,  but 
a  human  love  was  a  casuist  in  favor  of  self-in- 
terest, lie  iiad  returned  on  a  visit  to  Ilum- 
berston  Ilectory  about  a  week  previous  to  the 
date  of  this  chapter — the  niece  was  not  there. 
Sternly  he  had  forced  himself  to  examine  a  lit- 
tle more  closely  into  the  condition  of  the  flock 
which  (if  he  accepted  the  charge)  he  would 
have  to  guide,  and  the  duties  that  devolved  ujjon 
the  chief  pastor  in  a  populous  trading  town. 
He  became  appalled.  Iluniberston,  like  most 
towns  under  the  political  influence  of  a  Great 
House,  was  rent  by  parties.  One  party,  who 
succeeded  in  returning  one  of  tlie  two  members 
for  rarliament,  all  for  the  House  of  Montfort ; 
the  otlier  party,  who  returned  also  tlicir  mem- 
ber, all  against  it.  By  one  half  the  town,  what- 
ever came  from  Montfort  Court  was  sure  to  be 
regarded  with  a  most  malignant  and  distorted 
vision.  Meanwhile,  though  Mr.  Allsop  was  pop- 
ular with  the  higher  classes,  and  with  such  of 
the  extreme  poor  as  his  charity  relieved,  his 
pastoral  influence  generally  was  a  dead  letter. 
His  curate,  who  preached  for  him  —  a  good 
young  man  enough,  but  extremely  dull — was 
not  one  of  those  men  who  fill  a  church.  Trades- 
men wanted  an  excuse  to  stay  away  or  choose 
another  place  of  worship ;  and  they  contrived 
to  hear  some  passage  in  tl-.e  sermons,  overwliich, 
while  the  curate  mumbled,  they  habitually  slept 
^that  they  declared  to  be  "Puseyite."  The 
church  became  deserted :  and  about  the  same 
time  a  very  eloquent  Dissenting  minister  ap- 
peared at  Ilumberston,  and  even  professed 
churchfolks  went  to  hear  him.  George  Jlorley, 
alas!  jierccived  that  at  Humberston,  if  tlie 
Church  there  were  to  hold  her  own,  a  powerful 
and  i)Opular  preacher  was  essentially  required. 
His  mind  was  now  made  up.  At  Carr  Vipont's 
suggestion,  the  bishop  of  the  diocese,  being  then 
at  his  palace,  had  sent  to  see  him ;  and,  while 
granting  the  force  of  his  scru])les,  had  yet  said, 
'•Mine  is  the  main  responsibility.  But  if  you 
ask  me  to  ordain  you,  I  will  do  so  without  hes- 
itation ;  for  if  the  Church  wants  preachers,  it 
also  wants  deep  scholare  and  virtuous  pastors." 
Fresh  from  this  interview,  George  IMorley  came 
to  announee  to  Lady  Montfort  that  his  resolve 
was  unshaken.  She,  I  have  said,  paused  long 
balbre  she  answered.  "  George,"  she  began  at 
last,  in  a  voice  so  touchingly  sweet  that  its  very 
sound  was  balm  to  a  wounded  s])irit — "I  must 
not  argue  with  you — I  bow  before  the  grandeur 
of  your  motives,  and  I  will  not  say  that  you  are 
not  right.  One  thing  I  do  feel,  that  if  you  thus 
sacrifice  your  inclinations  and  intgrests  from 
scruples  so  pure  and  holy,  you  will  never  be  to 


be  pitied — you  will  never  know  regret.  Poor 
or  rich,  single  or  wedded,  a  soul  that  so  seeks 
to  reflect  heaven  will  be  serene  and  blessed  !" 
Thus  she  continued  to  address  him  for  some 
time,  he  all  the  while  inexpressibly  soothed  and 
comforted  ;  then  gradually  she  insinuated  hojies 
even  of  a  worldly  and  temporal  kind — literature 
was  left  to  liim — the  scholar's  pen,  if  not  the 
preacher's  voice.  In  literature  he  might  make 
a  career  that  would  lead  on  to  fortune.  There 
were  jjlaces  also  in  the  public  service  to  which 
a  defect  in  speech  was  no  obstacle.  She  knew 
his  secret,  modest  attachment;  she  alluded  to 
it  just  enough  to  encourage  constancy  and  re- 
buke despair.  As  she  ceased,  his  admiring  and 
grateful  consciousness  of  his  cousin's  rare  qual- 
ities changed  tiie  tide  of  his  emotions  toward 
her  from  himself,  and  he  exclaimed  with  an 
earnestness  that  almost  AvhoUy  subdued  his 
stutter, 

"What  a  counselor  you  are! — what  a  sooth- 
er! If  INIontfort  were  but  less  prosperous  or 
more  ambitious,  what  a  trcas.urc,  either  to  con- 
sole or  to  sustain,  in  a  mind  like  yours  !" 

As  those  words  were  said,  you  might  have 
seen  at  once  why  Lady  Montfort  was  called 
haughty  and  reserved.  Her  lip  seemed  sud- 
denly to  snatch  back  its  sweet  smile — her  dark 
eye,  before  so  purely,  softly  friend-like,  became 
coldly  distant — the  tones  of  her  voice  were  not 
the  same  as  she  answered — 

"Lord  ^lontfort  values  me,  as  it  is,  far  be- 
yond my  merits — far,"  she  added,  with  a  dif- 
ferent intonation,  gravely  mournful. 

"Forgive  me;  I  have  displeased  you.  I  did 
Kot  mean  it.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  jire- 
sume  either  to  disparage  Lord  Montfort — or — 
or  to — "  he  stopped  short,  saving  the  hiatus  by 
a  convenient  stammer.  "Only,"  he  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  only  forgive  me  this  once.  Kec- 
ollect  I  was  a  little  boy  when  you  were  a  young 
lady,  and  I  have  pelted  you  with  snow-balls, 
and  called  you  'Caroline.'"  Lady  IMontfort 
suppressed  a  sigh,  and  gave  the  young  scholar 
back  her  gracious  smile,  but  not  a  smile  that 
would  have  permitted  him  to  call  her  "  Caro- 
line" again.  She  remained,  indeed,  a  little  more 
distant  than  usual  during  the  rest  of  their  inter- 
view, which  was  not  much  prolonged ;  for  Mor- 
ley  felt  annoyed  with  himself  that  he  had  so  in- 
discreetly ofi'cnded  her,  and  seized  an  excuse  to 
escape.  "By-the-by,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Carr  Vipont,  asking  me  to  give  him  a 
sketch  for  a  Gothic  bridge  to  the  water  yonder. 
I  will,  with  your  leave,  walk  down  and  look  at 
the  proposed  site.  Only  do  say  that  you  for- 
give me." 

"  Forgive  you,  Cousin  George,  oh  yes.  One 
word  only — it  is  true  you  were  a  child  still  when 
I  fancied  I  was  a  woman,  and  you  have  a  right 
to  talk  to  me  ujion  all  things,  cxcejjt  those  that 
relate  to  me  and  Lord  INlontfort ;  unless,  in- 
deed," she  added,  with  a  bewitching  half  laugh, 
"unless  you  ever  see  cause  to  scold  me,  there. 
Good-by,  my  cousin,  and  in  turn  forgive  mc,  if 
I  was  so  petulant.  The  Caroline  you  pelted 
with  snow-balls  was  always  a  wayward,  impuls- 
ive creature,  quick  to  take  ofi'ense,  to  misunder- 
stand, and — to  repent." 

Back  into  the  broad,  broad  gravel-walk, 
walked,  more  slowly  than  before.  Lady  Mont- 
fort.    Again  the  sixty  ghastly  windows  stared 


126 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


at  her  with  all  their  eyes — back  from  the  gravel- 
walk,  through  a  side-door,  into  the  pompous  sol- 
itude of  the  stately  house — across  long  cham- 
bers, where  the  mirrors  reflected  her  form,  and 
the  huge  chairs,  in  their  flaunting  damask  and 
flaring  gold,  stood  stiff  on  desolate  floors — into 
her  own  private  room — neither  large  nor  splen- 
did that ;  plain  chintzes,  quiet  book-shelves.  She 
need  not  have  been  the  Marchioness  of  JMont- 
fort  to  inhabit  a  room  as  pleasant  and  as  luxu- 
rious. And  the  rooms  that  she  could  only  have 
owned  as  ^Marchioness,  what  were  those  worth 
to  her  happiness?  I  know  not.  "Nothing," 
fine  ladies  will  perhaps  answer.  Yet  those  same 
fine  ladies  will  contrive  to  dispose  their  daugh- 
ters to  answer,  "  All."  In  her  own  room  Lady 
Montfort  sunk  on  her  chair ;  wearily  ; — wearily 
she  looked  at  the  clock — wearily  at  the  books 
on  the  shelves — at  the  harp  near  the  window. 
Then  she  leaned  her  face  on  her  hand,  and  that 
face  was  so  sad,  and  so  humbly  sad,  that  you 
would  have  wondered  how  any  one  could  call 
Lady  ]Montfort  proud. 

"  Treasure  !  I — I ! — worthless,  fickle,  credu- 
lous fool  I — I — I !" 

The  groom  of  tlie  chambers  entered  with  the 
letters  by  the  afternoon  post.  That  Great  House 
contrived  to  worry  itself  with  two  posts  a  day. 
A  royal  command  to  Windsor — 

"  I  shall  be  more  alone  in  a  court  than  here," 
murmured  Lady  Montfort. 


CHAPTER  H. 


Truly  Baith  the  proverb,  "  Much  com  lies  under  the  straw 
that  is  not  seen." 

Meanwhile  George  Morley  followed  the  long 
shady  walk — very  handsome  walk,  full  of  prize 
roses  and  rare  exotics — artificially  winding,  too 
— walk  so  well  kept  that  it  took  thirty-four  men 
to  keep  it — noble  walk,  tiresome  walk — till  it 
brought  him  to  the  great  piece  of  water,  which, 
perhaps,  four  times  in  the  year  was  visited  by 
the  great  folks  in  the  Great  House.  And  being 
thus  out  of  the  immediate  patronage  of  fashion, 
the  great  piece  of  water  really  looked  natural 
—  companionable,  refreshing  —  you  began  to 
breathe  —  to  unbutton  your  waistcoat,  loosen 
your  neckclotii — quote  Chaucer,  if  you  could  rec- 
ollect him,  or  Cowper,  or  Shakspeare,  or  Thom- 
son's Seasons  ;  in  short,  any  scraps  of  verse  that 
came  into  your  head — as  your  feet  grew  joyously 
entangled  with  fern — as  the  trees  grouped  for- 
est-like before  and  round  you — trees  which  there 
being  out  of  sight,  were  allowed  to  grow  too  old 
to  be  worth  five  shillings  apiece,  moss-grown, 
hollow-trunked,  some  pollarded — trees  invalua- 
ble !  Ha  I  tlie  hare  !  how  she  scuds !  See,  the 
deer  marching  down  to  the  water-side.  What 
groves  of  bulrushes- — islands  of  water-lily !  And 
to  throw  a  Gothic  bridge  there,  bring  a  great  grav- 
el road  over  the  bridge  !    Oh,  shame!  shame ! 

So  would  have  said  the  scholar,  for  he  had  a 
true  sentiment  for  nature,  if  the  bridge  had  not 
clean  gone  out  of  his  head. 

Wandering  alone,  he  came  at  last  to  the  most 
rmibrageous  and  sequestered  bank  of  the  wide 
■water,  closed  round  on  every  side  by  brushwood, 
or  still  patriarchal  trees. 

Suddenly  he  arrested  his  steps — an  idea  struck 


him — one  of  those  odd,  whimsical,  grotesque 
ideas  which  often  when  we  are  alone  come  across 
us,  even  in  our  quietest  or  most  anxious  moods. 
Was  his  infirmity  really  incurable  ?  Elocution 
masters  had  said  "  Certainly  not;"  but  they  had 
done  him  no  good.  Yet  had  not  the  greatest 
orator  the  world  ever  knew  a  defect  in  utter- 
ance? He  too,  Demosthenes,  had,  no  doubt, 
paid  fees  to  elocution  masters,  the  best  in  Ath- 
ens, where  elocution  masters  must  have  studied 
their  art  ad  unrjiiem,  and  the  defect  had  baffled 
them.  But  did  Demosthenes  despair  ?  No,  he 
resolved  to  cure  himself — How?  Was  it  not 
one  of  his  methods  to  fill  his  mouth  with  peb- 
bles, and  practice  manfully  to  the  roaring  sea? 
George  Morley  had  never  tried  the  effect  of  peb- 
bles. Was  there  any  virtue  in  them  ?  AYhy  not 
try  ?  No  sea  there,  it  is  true ;  but  a  sea  was  only 
useful  as  representing  the  noise  of  a  stormy  dem- 
ocratic audience.  To  represent  a  peaceful  con- 
gregation that  still  sheet  of  water  would  do  as 
well.  Pebbles  there  were  in  plenty  just  by  that 
gravelly  cove,  near  which  a  young  pike  lay  sun- 
ning his  green  back.  Half  in  jest,  half  in  earn- 
est, the  scholar  picked  up  a  handful  of  pebbles, 
wiped  them  from  sand  and  moidd,  inserted  them 
between  his  teeth  cautiously,  and,  looking  round 
to  assure  himself  that  none  were  by,  began  an 
extempore  discourse.  So  interested  did  he  be- 
come in  that  classical  experiment,  that  he  might 
have  tortured  the  air  and  astonished  the  magpies 
(three  of  whom  from  a  neighboring  thicket  list- 
ened perfectly  spell-bound)  for  more  than  half 
an  hour,  when,  seized  with  shame  at  the  ludi- 
crous impotence  of  his  exertions — with  despair 
that  so  wretched  a  barrier  should  stand  between 
his  mind  and  its  expression — he  flung  away  the 
pebbles,  and,  sinking  on  the  ground,  he  fairly 
wept — wept  like  a  baffled  child. 

The  fact  was,  that  JMorley  had  really  the  tem- 
perament of  an  orator ;  he  had  the  orator's  gifts 
in  warmth  of  passion,  rush  of  thought,  logical 
ari'angemcnt ;  there  was  in  him  the  genius  of  a 
great  jjreacher.  He  felt  it — he  knew  it;  and  in 
that  despair  which  only  Genius  knows,  when 
some  pitiful  cause  obstructs  its  energies  and 
strikes  down  its  powers — making  a  confidant  of 
Solitude — he  wept  loud  and  freely. 

"Do  not  despond.  Sir;  I  undertake  to  cure 
you,"  said  a  voice  behind. 

George  started  up  in  confusion.  A  man,  eld- 
erly, but  fresh  and  vigorous,  stood  beside  him, 
in  a  light  fustian  jacket,  a  blue  apron,  and  with 
rushes  in  his  hands,  which  he  continued  to  plait 
together  nimbly  and  deftly  as  he  bowed  to  the 
startled  scholar. 

"  I  was  in  the  shade  of  the  thicket  yonder, 
Sir ;  pardon  me,  I  could  not  help  hearing  you." 

The  Oxonian  rubbed  his  e3"es,  and  stared  at 
the  man  with  a  vague  impression  that  he  had 
seen  him  before — When?    Where? 

"  You  can  cure  me,"  he  stuttered  out ;  "  what 
of? — the  folly  of  trying  to  speak  in  i)ublic. 
Thank  you,  I  am  cured." 

"Nay,  Sir,  you  see  before  you  a  man  who  c*n 
make  you  a  very  good  speaker.  Your  voice  is 
naturally  fine.  I  repeat  I  can  cure  a  defect 
which  is  not  in  the  organ,  but  in  the  manage- 
ment." 

"  You  can  !  you — who  and  what  are  you  ?" 

"  A  basket-maker,  Sir ;  I  hope  for  your  cus- 
tom." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


127 


"  Surely  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen 
you?" 

"True ;  yon  once  kindly  suffered  me  to  bor- 
row a  restii)<T-place  on  your  father's  land.  One 
good  turn  deserves  another." 

At  tliat  moment  Sir  Isaac  peered  through  the 
brambles,  and,  restored  to  his  orit^inal  white- 
ness, and  rcHcved  from  his  false,  iiorned  cars, 
marched  fjravely  toward  the  water,  sniffed  at 
the  scholar,  sliglitly  wagged  his  tail,  and  buried 
himself  among  the  reeds  in  search  of  a  water- 
rat  he  had  therein  disturbed  a  week  before,  and 
always  exjiected  to  find  again. 

Tlie  sight  of  the  dog  immediately  cleared  up 
the  cloud  in  the  scholar's  memory  ;  but  witli  rec- 
ognition came  back  a  keen  curiosity  and  a  sharp 
pang  of  remorse. 

"And  your  little  girl?"  he  asked,  looking 
down  abaslied. 

"  Better  than  she  was  when  we  last  met. 
Providence  is  so  kind  to  us." 

Poor  Waife,  he  never  guessed  that  to  the  per- 
son he  thus  revealed  himself  he  owed  the  grief 
for  Sophy's  abduction.  He  divined  no  reason 
for  the  scholar's  flushing  cheek  and  embarrassed 
manner. 

"Yes,  Sir,  we  have  just  settled  in  this  neigh- 
borhood. I  have  a  pretty  cottage  yonder  at  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  and  near  the  park-pales. 
I  recogni/cd  you  at  once ;  and  as  I  heard  you 
just  now,  I  called  to  mind  that  when  we  met  be- 
fore, vou  said  your  calling  should  be  the  Church, 
were  "it  not  for  your  difficulty  in  utterance;  and 
I  said  to  myself,  'No  bad  things  tliose  pebbles, 
if  his  utterance  were  tiiick,  which  it  is  not ;'  and 
I  have  not  a  doubt,  Sir,  that  the  true  fault  of 
Demosthenes,  whom  I  presume  you  were  imi- 
tating, was  that  he  spoke  through  his  nose." 

"  Eh  !"  said  the  scholar,  "through  his  nose? 
I  never  knew  that ! — and  I — " 

"  And  you  are  trying  to  speak  without  lungs  ; 
that  is,  witlunit  air  in  them.  You  don't  smoke, 
I  presume?" 

"No — certainly  not." 

"You  must  learn — speak  between  each  slow 
puff  of  your  jiipe.  All  you  want  is  time,  time  to 
quiet  the  nerves,  time  to  think,  time  to  breathe. 
The  niomcut  you  begin  to  stammer — stoj) — fill 
the  lungs  thus,  then  try  again!  It  is  only  a 
clever  man  who  can  learn  to  write — that  is,  to 
compose ;  but  any  fool  can  be  taught  to  speak — 
Courage !" 

"  If  you  really  can  teach  me,'"  cried  the  learn- 
ed man,  forgetting  all  self-rcjiroach  for  his  be- 
trayal of  Waife  to  Mrs.  Crane  in  tlie  absorbing 
interest  of  the  hope  that  sprang  up  within  him 
— "  If  you  can  teach  me — if  I  can  but  con — con 
— con — conq — " 

"  Slowly — slowly — breath  and  time ;  take  a 
whiff  from  my  pijjc — that's  right.  Yes,  you  can 
conquer  the  im])ediment." 

"Then  I  will  be  the  best  friend  to  you  that 
man  ever  had.     There's  my  hand  on  it." 

"  I  take  it,  but  I  ask  leave  to  change  the  par- 
ties in  the  contract.  I  don't  want  a  friend — I 
don't  deserve  one.  You'll  be  a  friend  to  my  lit- 
tle girl  instead ;  and  if  ever  I  ask  you  to  help 
me  in  aught  for  her  welfare  and  hap])iness — " 

"I  will  help,  heart  and  soul.  Slight,  indeed, 
any  senice  to  her  or  to  you  compared  with  such 
service  to  me.  Free  this  wretched  tongue  from 
its  stammer,  and  thought  and  zeal  will  not  stam- 


mer whenever  you  say,  '  Keep  your  promise.'  I 
am  so  glad  your  little  girl  is  still  with  you !" 

Waife  looked  surprised — "  Is  still  with  me — 
why  not?" 

The  scholar  bit  his  tongue.  That  was  not  the 
moment  to  C(nifcss  ;  it  might  destroy  all  Waife "s 
confidence  in  him.     He  would  do  so  later, 

"When  shall  I  begin  my  lesson?" 

"  Now,  if  you  like.  But  have  you  a  book  in 
your  pocket  ?" 

"I  always  have." 

"Not  Greek,  I  hope,  Sir." 

"  No,  a  volume  of  Barrow's  Sermons.  Lord 
Chatham  recommended  those  sermons  to  his 
great  son  as  a  study  for  eloquence." 

"  Good  !  Will  you  lend  me  the  volume.  Sir, 
and  now  for  it ;  listen  to  me :  one  sentence  at  a 
time — draw  your  breath  when  I  do." 

The  three  magpies  pricked  up  their  ears  again, 
and,  as  they  listened,  marveled  much. 


CHArTER  III. 

Could  we  know  by  what  strange  circumstances  a  man's 
genius  became  jireparcd  for  practical  success,  we  sliould 
discover  that  the  most  serviceable  items  in  his  education 
were  never  entered  in  the  hills  which  his  father  paid 
fpr  it. 

At  the  end  of  the  veiy  first  lesson  George 
^lorley  saw  that  all  the  elocution-masters  to 
whose  skill  he  had  l]een  consigned  were  blun- 
derers in  comjiarison  to  the  baskct-inakcr. 

Waife  did  not  jjuzzle  him  with  scientific  the- 
ories. All  that  the  groat  comedian  required  of 
him  was  to  observe  and  to  imitate.  Observation, 
imitation,  lo !  the  ground-work  of  all  art !  the 
primal  elements  of  all  genius !  Not  there,  indeed, 
to  halt,  but  there  ever  to  commence.  AVliat  re- 
mains to  carry  on  the  intellect  to  mastery  ?  Two 
steps — to  reflect,  to  reproduce.  Observation,  im- 
itation, reflection,  rejjroduction.  In  these  stands 
a  mind  complete  and  consummate,  fit  to  cope 
with  all  labor,  achieve  all  success. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  lesson  George  Morley 
felt  that  his  cure  was  possible.  ]\Iaking  an  ap- 
])ointmcnt  for  the  next  day  at  the  same  place, 
lie  came  thither  stealthily,  and  so  on  day  by 
day.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  felt  that  the  cure 
was  nearly  sure  ;  at  the  end  of  a  month  the  cure 
was  self-evident.  He  should  live  to  preach  the 
Word.  True,  that  he  ])racticcd  incessantly  in 
private.  Not  a  moment  in  his  waking  hours 
that  the  one  thought,  one  object,  were  absent 
from  his  mind  ;  true,  that  with  all  his  ]iaticnce, 
all  his  toil,  the  obstacle  was  yet  serious,  might 
never  be  entirely  overcome.  Nervous  hurry — ra- 
))idity  of  action — vehemence  of  feeling  brought 
back,  might,  at  unguarded  moiuents,  always 
bring  back  the  gasping  breath  —  the  emptied 
lungs  —  the  struggling  utterance.  But  the  re- 
lapse— rarer  and  rarer  now  with  each  trial — 
would  be  at  last  scarce  a  drawback.  "  Nay," 
quoth  Waife,  "  instead  of  a  drawl>ack,  become 
but  an  orator,  and  you  will  convert  a  defect  into 
a  beauty." 

Thus  justly  sanguine  of  the  accom]ili>hment 
of  his  life's  chosen  object,  the  scholar's  gratitude 
lo  Waife  was  unspeakable.  And  seeing  the  man 
daily  at  last  in  his  own  cottage — Sophy's  health 
restored  to  her  cheeks,  smiles  to  her  lip,  and 
cheered  at  her  light   fancy-work   beside    her 


128 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


grandsire's  elbo^-chair,  with  fairy  legends  in- 
stilling perhaps  golden  truths — seeing  Waife 
thus,  the  scholar  mingled  with  gratitude  a 
strange  tenderness  of  respect.  lie  knew  naught 
of  the  vagrant's  past — his  reason  might  admit 
that  in  a  position  of  life  so  at  variance  with  the 
gifts  natural  and  acquired  of  the  singular  basket- 
maker,  there  was  something  mj'sterious  and  sus- 
picious. But  he  blushed  to  think  that  he  had 
ever  ascribed  to  a  flawed  or  wandering  intellect 
the  eccentricities  of  glorious  Humor — abetted  an 
attempt  to  separate  an  old  age  so  innocent  and 
genial  from  a  childhood  so  fostered  and  so  fos- 
tering. And  sure  I  am  that  if  the  whole  world 
had  risen  np  to  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the 
one-eyed  cripple,  George  Morley,  the  well-born 
gentleman  —  the  refined  scholar  —  the  spotless 
Churchman — would  have  given  him  his  arm  to 
lean  upon,  and  walked  by  his  side  unashamed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


To  judge  human  character  rightly,  a  man  may  some- 
times have  very  small  experience,  provided  he  has  a 
very  large  heart. 

NuMA  PoMPiLirs  did  not  more  conceal  from 
notice  the  lessons  he  received  from  Egeria  than 
did  George  ]Morley  those  which  he  received  from 
the  basket-maker.  Natural,  indeed,  must  be  his 
wish  for  secrecy — pretty  stoiy  it  would  be  for 
Humberston,  its  future  rector  learning  how  to 
preach  a  sermon  from  an  old  basket-maker !  But 
he  had  a  nobler  and  more  imperious  motive  for 
discretion — his  honor  was  engaged  to  it.  Waife 
exacted  a  promise  tliat  he  would  regard  the  in- 
tercourse between  them  as  strictly  private  and 
confidential. 

"  It  is  for  my  sake  I  ask  this,"  said  Waife, 
frankly,  '•  though  I  might  say  it  was  for  yours." 
The  Oxonian  promised,  and  was  bound.  For- 
tunately, Lady  I\Iontfort  quitting  the  Great 
House  the  very  day  after  George  had  first  en- 
countered the  basket-maker,  and  writing  word 
that  she  should  not  return  to  it  for  some  weeks 
— George  was  at  liberty  to  avail  himself  of  her 
lord's  general  invitation  to  make  use  of  ^lont- 
fort  Court  as  his  lodgings  when  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, which  the  proprieties  of  the  world  would 
not  have  allowed  him  to  do  while  Lady  ^lontfort 
was  there  without  either  host  or  female  guests. 
Accordingly,  he  took  up  his  abode  in  a  corner 
of  the  vast  palace,  and  was  easily  enabled,  when 
he  pleased,  to  traverse  unobserved  the  solitudes 
of  the  park,  gain  the  water-side,  or  stroll  thence 
through  the  thick  copse  leading  to  Waife's  cot- 
tage, which  bordered  the  park-pales,  solitary, 
sequestered,  beyond  sight  of  the  neighboring 
village.  The  great  house  all  to  himself,  George 
was  brought  in  contact  with  no  one  to  whom,  in 
unguarded  moments,  he  could  even  have  let  out 
a  hint  of  his  new  acquaintance,  except  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  parish,  a  worthy  man,  who  lived 
in  strict  retirement  upon  a  scanty  stipend.  For 
the  I\Iarquis  was  the  lay  impropriator ;  the  liv- 
ing was  therefore  but  a  very  poor  vicarage,  be- 
low the  acceptance  of  a  Vipont  or  a  Yipont's 
tutor — sure  to  go  to  a  quiet  wortiiy  man  forced 
to  live  in  strict  retirement.  George  saw  too  lit- 
tle of  this  clergyman  either  to  let  out  secrets 
or  pick  up  information.     Fi'om  him,  however, 


',  George  did  incidentally  learn  that  Waife  had 
i  some  months  previously  visited  the  village,  and 
proposed  to  the  bailiff  to  take  the  cottage  and 
i  osier  land,  which  he  now  rented — that  he  rep- 
,  resented  himself  as  having  known  an  old  bask- 
et-maker who  had  dwelt  there  many  years  ago, 
I  and  had  learned  the  basket  craft  of"  that  long 
I  deceased  operative.  As  he  offered  a  higher  rent 
,  than  the  bailitf  could  elsewhere  obtain,  and  as 
the  bailiff  was  desirous  to  get  credit  with  3Ir. 
Carr  \'ipont  for  improving  the  property,  by  re- 
viving thereon  an  art  which  had  fallen  into 
desuetude,  the  bargain  was  struck,  provided  the 
candidate,  being  a  stranger  to  the  ])lace,  could 
I  furnish  the  bailiff  with  any  satisfactory  refer- 
1  ence.  Waife  had  gone  away,  saying  he  should 
shortly  return  with  the  requisite  testimonial. 
In  fact,  poor  man,  as  we  know,,  he  was  then 
counting  on  a  good  word  from  .Mr.  Hartopp. 
He  had  not,  however,  returned  for  some  months. 
The  cottage  having  been  meanwhile  wanted  for 
the  temporary  occupation  of  an  under  game- 
keeper, while  his  own  was  under  repair,  fortu- 
nately remained  unlet.  Waife,  on  returning, 
accompanied  by  his  little  girl,  had  referred  the 
bailiff  to  a  respectable  house-agent  and  collector 
of  street  rents  in  Bloomsbury,  who  wrote  word 
that  a  lady,  then  abroad,  had  authorized  him, 
as  the  agent  employed  in  the  management  of  a 
house  property  from  which  mnch  of  her  income 
was  derived,  not  only  to  state  that  Waife  was  a 
very  intelligent  man,  likely  to  do  well  whatever 
he  undertook,  but  also  to  guarantee,  if  required, 
the  punctual  payment  of  the  rent  for  any  holding 
of  which  he  became  the  occupier.  On  this  the 
agreement  was  concluded — the  basket-maker 
installed.  In  the  immediate  neighborhood  there 
was  no  custom  for  basket-work,  but  Waife's  per- 
formances were  so  neat,  and  some  so  elegant 
and  fanciful,  that  he  .had  no  diiliculty  in  con- 
tracting with  a  large  tradesman  (not  at  Hum- 
berston, but  a  more  distant  and  yet  more  thriv- 
ing town  about  twenty  miles  oft'),  for  as  much 
of  such  work  as  he  could  supply.  Each  week 
the  carrier  took  his  goods  and  brought  back  the 
payments ;  the  profits  amply  suflSced  for  Waife's 
and  Sophy's  daily  bread,  with  even  more  than 
the  surplus  set  aside  for  the  rent.  For  the  rest, 
the  basket-maker's  cottage  being  at  tlie  farthest 
outskirts  of  the  straggling  village  inhabited  but 
by  a  laboring  peasantry,  his  way  of  life  was  not 
much  known,  nor  much  inquired  into.  He 
seemed  a  harmless  hard-working  man — never 
seen  at  the  beer-house,  always  seen  with  his 
neatly-dressed  little  grandchild  in  his  quiet  cor- 
ner at  church  on  Sundays — a  civil,  well-behaved 
man  too,  who  touched  his  hat  to  the  bailift",  and 
took  it  oft'  to  the  vicar. 

An  idea  prevailed  that  the  basket-maker  had 
spent  much  of  his  life  in  foreign  parts,  favored 
partly  by  a  sobriety  of  habits  which  is  not  alto- 
gether national,  partly  by  something  in  his  ap- 
pearance, which,  without  being  above  his  lowly 
calling,  did  not  seem  quite  in  keeping  with  it — 
outlandish  in  short — but  principally  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  received  since  his  arrival  two  letters 
with  a  foreign  jxjstmark.  The  idea  befriended 
the  old  man ;  allowing  it  to  be  inferred  that  he 
had  probably  outlived  the  friends  he  had  for- 
merly left  behind  him  in  England,  and  on  his 
return,  been  sufficiently  fatigued  with  his  ram- 
bles to  drop  contented  in  any  corner  of  his  native 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


129 


soil,  wherein  he  could  find  a  quiet  home,  and 
earn  by  light  toil  a  decent  livelihood. 

George,  though  naturally  curious  to  know 
what  had  been  the  result  of  his  communication 
to  Mrs.  Crane — whether  it  had  led  to  Waife's 
discovery  or  caused  him  annoyance,  had  hither- 
to, however,  shrunk  from  touching  upon  a  topic 
which  subjected  himself  to  an  awkward  confes- 
sion of  officious  intermeddling,  and  might  ap- 
pear an  indirect  and  indelicate  mode  of  prying 
into  painful  family  affairs.  But  one  day  he  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  his  father  which  disturbed 
him  greatly,  and  induced  him  to  break  ground 
and  speak  to  his  preceptor  frankly.  In  this  let- 
ter the  elder  ^•.  Morley  mentioned  incidental- 
ly, among  other  scraps  of  local  news,  that  he  had 
seen  Mr.  Hartopp,  who  was  rather  out  of  sorts, 
his  good  heart  not  having  recovered  the  shock 
of  having  been  abominably  "  taken  in"  by  an 
impostor  for  whom  he  had  conceived  a  great 
fancy,  and  to  whose  discovery  George  himself 
had  providentially  led  (the  father  referring  here 
to  what  George  had  told  him  of  his  first  meeting 
with  Waife,  and  his  visit  to  Mrs.  Crane),  the 
impostor,  it  seemed,  from  what  Mr.  Hartopp  let 
fall,  not  being  a  little  queer  in  the  head — as 
George  had  been  led  to  surmise — but  a  very  bad 
character.  "  In  fact,"  added  the  elder  Morley, 
"a  character  so  bad,  that  Mr.  Hartopp  was  too 
glad  to  give  up  the  child,  whom  the  man  ap- 
pears to  have  abducted,  to  her  lawful  protectors; 
and  I  suspect  from  what  Hartopp  said,  though 
he  does  not  like  to  own  that  he  was  taken  in  to 
so  gross  a  degree,  that  he  had  been  actually  in- 
troducingto  his  fellow-townsfolk,  and  conferring 
familiarly,  with  a  regular  jail-bird — perhaps  a 
burglar.  How  lucky  for  that  poor,  soft-headed, 
excellent  Jos  Hartopp — whom  it  is  positively  as 
inhuman  to  take  in  as  if  he  were  a  born  natural 
— that  the  lady  you  saw  an'ived  in  time  to  ex- 
pose the  snares  laid  for  his  benevolent  credulity. 
But  for  that,  Jos  might  have  taken  the  fellow 
into  his  own  house — (just  like  him  !) — and  been 
robbed  by  this  time — perhaps  murdered — Heav- 
en knows !" 

Incredulous  and  indignant,  and  longing  to  be 
empowered  to  vindicate  his  friend's  fair  name, 
George  seized  his  hat,  and  strode  quick  along 
the  path  toward  the  basket-maker's  cottage. 
As  he  gained  the  water-side  he  perceived  Waife 
himself,  seated  on  a  mossy  bank,  under  a  gnarled 
fantastic  thorn-tree,  watching  a  deer  as  it  came 
to  drink,  and  whistling  a  soft  mellow  tune — the 
tunc  of  an  old  English  border-song.  The  deer 
lifted  its  antlers  from  the  water,  and  turned  its 
large  bright  eyes  toward  the*o])posite  bank, 
whence  the  note  came — listening  and  wistful. 
As  George's  step  crushed  the  wild  thyme,  which 
the  thorn-tree  shadowed — "Hush,"  said  Waife, 
"and  mark  how  the  rudest  musical  sound  can 
affect  the  brute  creation."  He  resumed  the 
whistle — a  clearer,  louder,  wilder  tune — that  of 
a  lively  hunting-song.  The  deer  turned  quickly 
round — uneasy,  restless,  tossed  its  antlers,  and 
bounded  through  the  fern.  Waife  again  changed 
the  key  of  his  primitive  music — a  melancholy 
belling  note,  like  the  belling  itself  of  a  melan- 
choly hart,  but  more  modulated  into  sweetness. 
The  deer  arrested  its  flight,  and,  lured  by  the 
mimic  sound,  returned  toward  the  water-side, 
slow  and  stately. 

"  I  don't  think  the  story  of  Orpheus  charming 


the  brutes  was  a  fable — do  you,  Sir  ?"  said  Waife. 
' '  The  rabbits  about  here  know  me  already ;  and 
if  I  had  but  a  fiddle  I  would  undertake  to  make 
friends  with  that  reserved  and  unsocial  water- 
rat,  on  whom  Sir  Isaac  in  vain  endeavoi-s  at 
present  to  force  his  acquaintance.  ^lan  com- 
mits a  great  mistake  in  not  cultivating  more  in- 
timate and  amicable  relations  with  the  other 
branches  of  earth's  great  family.  Few  of  them 
not  more  amusing  than  we  arc— naturally,  for 
they  have  not  our  cares.  And  such  variety  of 
character,  too,  where  you  would  least  expect  it!" 
Geougi:  Moklet.  "Very  true:  Cowjier  no- 
ticed marked  differences  of  character  in  his  fa- 
vorite hares." 

Waife.  "Hares!  I  am  sure  that  there  are 
not  two  house-flies  on  a  window-pane,  two  min- 
nows in  that  water,  that  would  not  present  to  us 
interesting  points  of  contrast  as  to  temper  and 
disposition.  If  house-flies  and  minnows  could 
but  coin  money,  or  set  up  a  manufacture — con- 
trive something,  in  short,  to  buy  or  sell  attractive 
to  Anglo-Saxon  enterprise  and  intelligence — of 
course  we  should  soon  have  diplomatic  relations 
with  them;  and  our  dispatches  and  newspapers 
would  instruct  us  to  a  T  in  the  characters  and 
propensities  of  their  leading  personages.  But 
where  man  has  no  pecuniary  nor  ambitious  in- 
terests at  stake  in  his  commerce  with  any  class 
of  his  fellow-creatures,  his  information  about 
them  is  extremely  confused  and  superficial. 
The  best  naturalists  are  mere  generalizcrs,  and 
think  they  have  done  a  vast  deal  when  they 
classify  a  species.  What  should  we  know  about 
mankind  if  we  had  only  a  naturalist's  definition 
of  man  ?  We  only  know  mankind  by  knocking 
classification  on  the  head,  and  studying  each 
man  as  a  class  in  himself.  Compare  Buffon 
with  Shakspeare  I  Alas !  Sir — can  we  never 
have  a  Shakspeare  for  house-flies  and  min- 
nows ?" 

George  Mokley.  "  With  all  respect  for  min- 
nows and  house-flies,  if  we  found  another  Shaks- 
peare, he  might  be  better  employed,  like  his 
predecessor,  in  selecting  individualities  from  the 
classifications  of  man." 

Waife.   "  Being  yourself  a  man,  you  think  so 

— a  house-fly  might  be  of  a  different  opinion. 

But  permit  me,  at  least,  to  doubt  whether  such 

an  investigator  would  be  better  employed  in 

reference  to  his  own  happiness,  though  I  grant 

that  he  would  be  so  in  reference  to  your  intel- 

j  lectual  amusement  and  social  interests.     Poor 

I  Shakspeare!     How  much  he  must   have   suf- 

j  fered!"' 

George  Morley.   "  You  mean  that  he  must 

have  been  racked  by  the  passions  he  describes 

— bruised  by  collision  with  the  hearts  he  dis- 

I  sects.     That  is  not  necessary  to  genius.     The 

!  judge  on  his  bench,  summing  up  evidence,  and 

I  charging  the  jury,  has  no  need  to  have  shared 

j  the  temptations,  or  been  privy  to  the  acts,  of 

the  prisoner  at  the  bar.     Yet  how  consummate 

;  may  be  his  analysis  !"' 

I      "No,"   cried  Waife,  roughly.     "No.     Your 

;  illustration  destroys  your  argument.     The  judge 

knows  nothing  of  the  prisoner!     There  are  the 

!  circumstances — there  is  the  law.     By  these  he 

I  generalizes — by  these  he  judges — right  or  wrong. 

But  of  the  individual  at  the  bar — of  the  world 

— the  tremendous  world  within  that  individual 

heart — I  repeat — he  knows  nothing.     Did  he 


130 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


know,  law  and  circumstance  might  vanish — hu- 
man justice  would  be  paralyzed.  Ho,  there ! 
place  that  swart-visajied,  ill-looking  foreigner  in 
the  dock,  and  let  counsel  open  the  case — hear 
the  witnesses  depose !  Oh,  horrible  wretch ! — a 
murderer — unmanly  murderer ! — a  defenseless 
woman  smothered  by  caitiff  hands !  Hang  him 
up — hang  him  up !  '  Softly,'  whispers  the  Poet, 
and  lifts  the  vail  from  the  Assassin's  heart. 
'Lo  !  it  is  Othello  the  Moor!'  What  jury  now 
dare  find  that  criminal  guilty  ? — what  judge 
now  will  put  on  the  black  cap  ? — who  now  says, 
'Hang  him  up — hang  him  ui5?"' 

With  such  lifelike  force  did  the  Comedian 
vent  this  passionate  outburst  that  he  thrilled 
his  listener  with  an  awe  akin  to  tliat  which  the 
convicted  Moor  gathers  round  himself  at  the 
close  of  the  sublime  drama.  Even  Sir  Isaac 
was  startled ;  and,  leaving  his  hopeless  pursuit 
of  the  water-rat,  uttered  a  low  bark,  came  to 
his  master,  and  looked  into  his  face  with  solemn 
curiosity. 

Waife  (relapsing  into  colloquial  accents). 
"  Why  do  we  s}'mpathize  with  those  above  us 
more  than  with  those  below  ?  why  with  the  sor- 
rows of  a  king  rather  than  those  of  a  beggar? 
why  does  Sir  Isaac  sympathize  with  me  more 
than  (let  that  water-rat  vex  him  ever  so  much) 
I  can  possibly  sympathize  with  him?  Whatever 
be  the  cause,  see  at  least,  INIr.  Morley,  one  rea- 
son why  a  poor  creature  like  myself  finds  it  bet- 
ter employment  to  cultivate  the  intimacy  of 
brutes  than  to  prosecute  the  study  of  men. 
Among  men,  all  are  too  high  to  sympathize  with 
me ;  but  I  have  known  two  friends  who  never 
injured  nor  betrayed  me.  Sir  Isaac  is  one, 
Wamba  was  another.  Wamba,  Sir,  the  native 
of  a  remote  district  of  the  globe  (two  friends 
civilized  Europe  is  not  large  enough  to  afl'ord  to 
any  one  man) — Wamba,  Sir,  was  less  gifted  by 
nature,  less  refined  by  education  than  Sir  Isaac ; 
but  he  was  a  safe  and  trustworthy  companion. 
Wamba,  Sir,  v/as — an  opossum." 

Geokge  Morley.  "  Alas,  my  dear  Mr.  Waife, 
I  fear  that  men  must  have  behaved  very  ill  to 
you." 

Waife.  "  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  I 
have  behaved  very  ill  to  myself.  When  a  man 
is  his  own  enemy,  he  is  ver)-  unreasonable  if  he 
expect  other  men  to  be  his  benefactors." 

George  Morley  (with  emotion).  "Listen, 
I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you.  I  fear  I 
have  done  you  an  injurj- — where,  officiously,  I 
meant  to  do  a  kindness."  The  scholar  hurried 
on  to  narrate  the  particulars  of  his  visit  to  Mrs. 
Crane.  On  concluding  the  recital,  he  added — 
"When  again  I  met  you  here  and  learned  that 
your  Sophy  was  with  you,  I  felt  inexpressibly 
relieved.  It  was  clear  then,  I  thought,  that  your 
grandchild  had  been  left  to  your  care  unmolested, 
either  that  you  had  proved  not  to  be  the  person 
of  whom  the  parties  were  in  search,  or  family 
affairs  had  been  so  explained  and  reconciled, 
that  my  interfei'ence  had  occasioned  you  no 
harm.  But  to-day  I  have  a  letter  from  my  fa- 
ther which  disquiets  me  mucli.  It  seems  that 
the  persons  in  question  did  visit  Gatesboro'  and 
have  maligned  you  to  Mr.  Hartopp.  Under- 
stand me,  I  ask  for  no  confidence  which  you 
may  be  unwilling  to  give ;  but  if  you  will  arm 
me  with  the  power  to  vindicate  your  character 
from  aspersions  which  I  need  not  your  assur- 


ance to  hold  unjust  and  false,  I  will  not  rest  till 
that  task  be  triumphantly  accomplished." 

Waife  (in  a  tone  calm  but  dejected).  "I 
thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  But  there  is  no- 
thing to  be  done.  I  am  glad  that  the  subject 
did  not  start  up  between  us  until  such  little 
service  as  I  could  render  you,  Mr.  Morley,  was 
pretty  well  over.  It  would  have  been  a  pity  if 
you  had  been  compelled  to  drop  all  communica- 
tion with  a  man  of  attainted  character  before 
you  had  learned  how  to  manage  the  powers  that 
will  enable  you  hereafter  to  exhort  sinners  worse 
than  I  have  been.  Hush,  Sir!  you  feel  that,  at 
least  now,  I  am  an  inoft'ensive  old  man — labor- 
ing for  a  humble  livelihood.  Ifoa  Mill  not  re- 
peat here  what  you  may  have  heard,  or  yet 
hear,  to  the  discredit  of  my  former  life?  You 
will  not  send  me  and  my  grandchild  forth  from 
our  obscure  refuge  to  confront  a  world  with 
which  Ave  have  no  strength  to  cope  ?  And,  be- 
lieving this,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  say  Fare- 
you-well,  Sir." 

"I  should  deserve  to  lose  spe — spe — speech 
altogether,"  cried  the  Oxonian,  gasping  and 
stammering  fearfully  as  he  caught  Waife  firmly 
by  the  arm,  "if  I  suffered — suit" — suff — sufif — " 

"One,  two!  take  time,  Sir!"  said  the  Come- 
dian, softly.  And  with  a  sweet  patience  he  re- 
seated himself  on  the  bank. 

The  Oxonian  threw  himself  at  length  by  the 
outcast's  side ;  and  with  the  noble  tenderness  of 
a  nature  as  chivalrously  Christian  as  Heaven 
ever  gave  to  priest,  he  rested  his  folded  hands 
u])on  Waife's  shoulder,  and  looking  him  full  and 
close  in  the  face,  said  thus,  slowly,  deliberately, 
not  a  stammer, 

"  You  do  not  guess  what  you  have  done  for 
me ;  you  have  secured  to  me  a  home  and  a 
career — the  wife  of  whom  I  must  otherwise  have 
despaired — the  divine  vocation  on  which  all  my 
earthly  hopes  were  set,  and  which  I  was  on  tlie 
eve  of  renouncing — do  not  think  these  are  obliga- 
tions which  can  be  lightly  shaken  off.  If  there 
are  circumstances  which  forbid  me  to  disabuse 
others  of  impressions  which  wrong  you,  imagine 
not  that  their  false  notions  will  affect  my  own 
gratitude — my  own  respect  for  you!" 

"  Nay,  Sir !  they  ought — they  must.  Perhaps 
not  your  exaggerated  gratitude  for  a  service 
which  you  should  not,  however,  measure  by  its 
effects  on  yourself,  but  by  the  slightness  of  the 
trouble  it  gave  to  me ;  not  perhaps  your  grati- 
tude— but  j'our  respect,  yes." 

"  I  tell  you  no !  Do  you  fancy  that  I  can  not 
judge  of  a  man's  nature  without  calling  on  him 
to  trust  me  wuh  all  the  secrets — all  the  errors, 
if  you  will,  of  his  past  life  ?  Will  not  the  call- 
ing to  which  I  may  now  hold  myself  destined 
give  me  power  and  commandment  to  absolve  all 
those  who  truly  rejient  and  unfeignedly  believe? 
Oh,  Mr.  Waife!  if  in  earlier  days  you  have 
sinned,  do  you  not  repent?  and  how  often,  in 
many  a  lovely  gentle  sentence  dropped  unawares 
from  your  lips,  have  I  had  cause  to  know  that 
you  unfeignedly  believe!  Were  I  now  clothed 
with  sacred  authority,  could  I  not  absolve  you  as 
a  priest  ?  Think  you  that,  in  the  mean  while,  I 
dare  judge  you  as  a  man  ?  I — life's  new  recruit, 
guarded  hitherto  from  temptation  by  careful  jjar- 
ents  and  favoring  fortune — /presume  to  judge, 
and  judge  harshly,  the  gray-haired  veteran,  wea- 
ried by  the  march,  wounded  in  the  battle!" 


"WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


131 


"  You  arc  a  noblc-heartcd human  being,"  said 
"Waifp,  greatly  aflected.  ' '  And — mark  my  words 
— a  mantle  of  charity  so  large  you  will  live  to 
wear  as  a  robe  of  honor.  But  hear  me,  Sir! 
Mr.  Hartopp  also  is  a  man  infinitely  charitable, 
benevolent,  kindly,  and,  through  all  his  sim- 
plicity, acutely  shrewd,  ilr.  Hartopp,  on  hear- 
ing what  was  said  against  me,  deemed  me  unfit 
to  retain  my  grandchild,  resigned  the  trust  I  had 
confided  to  him,  and  would  have  given  me  alms, 
no  doubt,  had  I  asked  them,  but  not  his  hand. 
Take  your  hands.  Sir,  from  my  shoulder,  lest  the 
touch  sully  you." 

George  did  take  his  hands  from  the  vagrant's 
shoulder,  but  it  was  to  grasp  the  hand  that 
waived  them  off,  and  struggled  to  escape  the 
pressure.  ''You  are  innocent,  you  are  innocent  I 
forgive  mc  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  repentance,  as 
if  you  had  been  guilty.  I  feel  you  are  innocent 
— feel  it  by  my  own  heart.  You  turn  away.  I 
defy  you  to  say  that  you  are  guilty  of  what  has 
been  laid  to  your  charge,  of  wliat  has  darkened 
your  good  name,  of  what  ^Nlr.  Hartopp  believed 
to  your  prejudice.  Look  me  in  the  face  and 
sav,  '  I  am  not  innocent,  I  have  not  been  be- 
lied.' " 

Waife  remained  voiceless — motionless. 

The  young  man,  in  whose  nature  lay  yet  un- 
proved all  those  grand  qualities  of  heart,  with- 
out which  never  was  there  a  grand  orator,  a 
grand  preacher — qualities  which  grasp  the  re- 
sults of  argument,  and  arrive  at  tlie  end  of  elab- 
orate reasoning  by  sudden  impulse  —  here  re- 
leased "Waife's  hand,  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  fac- 
ing Waife,  as  the  old  man\ate  with  face  avert- 
ed, eyes  downcast,  breast  heaving,  said,  loftily, 

"Forget  that  I  may  soon  be  the  Christian 
minister  whose  duty  bows  his  ear  to  the  lips  of 
shame  and  guilt — whose  hand,  when  it  points 
to  Heaven,  no  mortal  touch  can  sully — M^hose 
sublimest  post  is  by  the  sinner's  side.  Look  on 
me  but  as  man  and  gentleman.  See,  I  now 
extend  this  hand  to  you.  If,  as  man  and  gen- 
tleman, you  have  done  that  which,  could  all 
hearts  be  read,  all  secrets  known — human  judg- 
ment reversed  by  Divine  omniscience — forbids 
you  to  take  this  hand — the?i  reject  it — go  hence 
— we  parti  But  if  no  such  act  be  on  your  con- 
science— however  you  submit  to  its  imputation 
— THEN,  in  the  name  of  Truth,  as  man  and  gen- 
tleman to  man  and  gentleman,  I  command  you 
to  take  this  right  hand,  and  in  the  name  of  that 
Honor  which  bears  no  paltering,  I  forbid  you  to 
disobey." 

The  vagabond  rose,  like  the  dead  at  the  spell 
of  a  magician — tdok,  as  if  irresistibly,  the  hand 
held  out  to  him.  Arid  the  scholar,  overjoyed, 
fell  on  his  breast,  embracing  him  as  a  son. 

"You  know,"  said  George,  in  trembling  ac- 
cents, "  that  the  hand  you  have  taken  will  nev- 
er betray — never  desert;  but  is  it — is  it  really 
powerless  to  raise  and  to  restore  you  to  your 
place  ?" 

'•Powerless  among  your  kind  for  that  indeed," 
aHwered  Waife.  in  accents  still  more  tremu- 
lous. "All  the  kings  of  the  earth  are  not  strong 
enough  to  raise  a  name  that  has  once  been 
trampled  into  the  mire.  Learn  that  it  is  not 
only  impossible  for  me  to  clear  myself,  but  that 
it  is  equally  impossible  for  me  to  confide  to  mor- 
tal being  a  single  plea  in  defense  if  I  am  inno- 
cent, in  extenuation  if  I  am  guilty.     And  say- 


ing this,  and  entreating  yon  to  hold  it  more 
merciful  to  condemn  than  to  question  me — for 
question  is  torture — I  can  not  reject  your  pity ; 
but  it  would  be  mockery  to  offer  me  respect !" 

"  What !  not  respect  the  fortitude  which  cal- 
umny can  not  crush  ?  Would  that  fortitude  be 
possible  if  you  were  not  calm  in  the  knowledge 
that  no  false  witnesses  can  mislead  the  Eternal 
Judge  ?  Respect  you !  yes — because  I  have  seen 
you  happy  in  despite  of  men,  and  therefore  I 
know  that  the  cloud  around  you  is  not  the  frown 
of  Heaven." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Waife,  the  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks,  "  and  not  an  hour  ago  I  was  jesting  at 
human  friendship — venting  graceless  spleen  on 
my  fellow-men!  And  now  —  now  —  Ah!  Sir, 
Providence  is  so  kind  to  me!  And,"  said  he, 
brushing  away  his  tears,  as  the  old  arch  smile 
began  to  play  round  the  corner  of  his  mouth — 
"  and  kind  to  me  in  the  very  quarter  in  which 
unkindness  had  most  sorely  smitten  me.  True, 
you  directed  toward  me  the  woman  who  took 
from  me  my  grandchild — who  destroyed  me  in 
the  esteem  of  good  Mr.  Hartopp.  Well,  you 
see,  I  have  my  sweet  Sophy  back  again ;  we  are 
in  the  home  of  all  others  I  most  longed  for  ;  and 
that  woman — yes,  I  can,  at  least  thus  far,  con- 
fide to  you  my  secrets,  so  that  you  may  not  blame 
yourself  for  sending  her  to  Ga'tesboro' — that  veiy 
woman  knows  of  my  shelter — furnished  me  with 
the  very  reference  necessary  to  obtain  it;  has 
freed  my  grandchild  from  a  loathsome  bondage, 
which  I  could  not  have  legally  resisted ;  and 
should  new  persecutions  chase  us,  will  watch, 
and  warn,  and  help  us.  And  if  you  as^  me 
how  this  change  in  her  was  effected — how,  when 
we  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  green  fields,  and 
deemed  that  only  in  the  crowd  of  a  city  we  could 
escape  those  who  pursued  us  when  discovered 
there,  though  I  fancied  myself  an  adept  in  dis- 
guise, and  the  child  and  the  dog  were  never  seen 
out  of  the  four  garret  walls  in  which  I  hid  them ; 
if  you  ask  me,  I  say,  to  explain  how  that  very 
woman  was  suddenly  converted  from  a  remorse- 
less foe  into  a  saving  guardian,  I  can  only  an- 
swer, by  no  wit,  no  device,  no  persuasive  art  of 
mine.  Providence  softened  her  heart,  and  made 
it  kind,  just  at  the  moment  when  no  other  agency 
on  earth  could  have  rescued  us  from — from — " 

"  Say  no  more — I  guess !  the  paper  this  wo- 
man showed  me  was  a  legal  form  authorizing 
your  poor  little  Sophy  to  be  given  up  to  the  care 
of  a  father.  I  guess  !  of  that  father  you  would 
not  speak  ill  to  me ;  yet  from  that  father  you 
would  save  your  grandchild.  Say  no  more.  And 
yon  quiet  home — your  humble  employment,  re- 
ally content  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  such  a  life  can  but  last !  Sophy  is  so 
well,  so  cheerful,  so  happy.  Did  not  you  hear 
her  singing  the  other  day  ?  She  never  used  to 
sing !  But  we  had  not  been  here  a  week  when 
song  broke  out  from  her  untaught,  as  from  a 
bird.  But  if  any  ill  report  of  me  travel  hither 
from  Gatesboro',  or  elsewhere,  we  shotdd  be  sent 
away,  and  the  bird  would  be  mute  in  my  thorn- 
tree — Sophy  would  sing  no  more." 

"Do  n.ot  fear  that  slander  shall  drive  you 
hence.  Lady  Montfort,  you  know,  is  my  cous- 
in, but  you  know  not — few  do — how  thoroughly 
generous  and  gentle-hearted  she  is.  I  will  speak 
of  you  to  her — Oh,  do  not  look  alarmed.  She 
will  take  my  word  when  I  tell  her  'that  is  a 


132 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


good  man ;'  and  if  she  ask  more,  it  will  be  enough 
to  say,  'those  who  have  known  better  days  are 
loth  to  speak  to  strangers  of  the  past.'" 

"  I  thank  you  earnestly,  sincerely,"  said 
Waife,  brightening  up.  "  One  favor  more — if 
you  saw  in  the  formal  document  shown  to  you, 
or  retain  on  j-our  memory,  the  name  of — of  the 
person  authorized  to  claim  Sophy  as  his  child, 
you  will  not  mention  it  to  Lady  Montfort.  I 
am  not  sure  if  ever  she  heard  that  name,  but 
she  may  have  done  so — and  —  and — "  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  muse ;  then 
went  on,  not  concluding  his  sentence.  "You 
are  so  good  to  me,  IMr.  Morley,  that  I  wish  to 
confide  in  you  as  far  as  I  can.  Now,  you  see  I 
am  already  an  old  man,  and  my  chief  object  is 
to  raise  up  a  friend  for  Sophy  when  I  am  gone 
— a  friend  in  her  own  sex.  Sir.  Oh,  you  can 
not  guess  how  I  long — how  I  yearn  to  view  that 
child  under  the  holy  fostering  eyes  of  woman. 
Perhaps  if  Lady  iNIontfort  saw  my  pretty  Sophy 
she  might  take  a  fancy  to  her.  Oh,  if  she  did 
— if  she  did  I  And  Sophy,"  added  Waife,  proud- 
ly, "has  a  right  to  respect.  She  is  not  like  me 
— any  hovel  good  enough  for  me.  But  for  her! 
— Do  you  know  that  I  conceived  that  hojje — 
that  the  hope  helped  to  lead  me  back  here  when, 
months  ago,  I  was  at  Humbesston,  intent  upon 
rescuing  Sophy  ;  and  saw,  though,"  observed 
Waife,  with  a  sly  twitch  of  the  muscles  round  j 
his  mouth,  "  I  had  no  right  at  that  precipe  mo- 
ment to  be  seeing  any  thing — Lady  ]\Iontfort's 
humane  fear  for  a  blind  old  impostor,  who  was 
trying  to  save  his  dog — a  black  dog,  Sir,  who 
had  dyed  his  hair — from  her  carriage  wheels. 
And  the  hope  became  stronger  still,  when,  the 
first  Sunday  I  attended  yon  village  church,  I 
again  saw  that  fair — wondrously  fair — face  at 
the  far  end — fair  as  moonlight  and  as  melan- 
choly. Strange  it  is.  Sir,  that  I,  naturally  a 
boisterous,  mirthful  man,  and  now  a  shy,  skulk- 
ing fugitive — feel  more  attracted,  more  allured 
toward  a  countenance,  in  proportion  as  I  read 
there  the  trace  of  sadness.  I  feel  less  abashed 
by  my  own  nothingness — more  emboldened  to 
approach  and  say,  '  Not  so  far  apart  from  me ; 
thou,  too,  hast  suffered.'     Why  is  this?" 

Geouge  Motley.  "'The  fool  hath  said  in 
his  heart  that  there  is  no  God ;'  but  the  fool 
hath  not  said  iu  his  heart  that  tliere  is  no  sor- 
row— pithy  and  most  profound  sentence;  inti- 
mating the  irrefragable  chain  that  binds  men  to 
the  Father.  And  where  the  chain  tightens  the 
children  are  closer  drawn  together.  But  to  your 
wish — I  will  remember  it.  And  when  my  cous- 
in returns  she  shall  see  your  Sophy." 


CHAPTER  V. 

llr.  "Waife,  being  by  nature  unlucky,  considers  that,  in 
proportion  as  Fortune  brings  him  good  luck,  Nature 
converts  it  into  hzd.  He  suffers  Mr.  George  Morley  to 
go  away  in  his  debt,  and  Sophy  fears  that  he  will  be 
dull  in  consequence. 

George  Morlet,  a  few  weeks  after  the  con^ 
versation  last  recorded,  took  his  departure  from 
Montfort  Court,  prepared,  without  a  scruple,  to 
present  himself  for  ordination  to  the  friendly 
bishop.  From  Waife  he  derived  more  than  the 
cure  of  a  disabling  infirmity  ;  he  received  those 
hints  which,  to  a  man  who  has  the  natural  tem- 


perament of  an  orator,  so  rarely  united  with 
that  of  the  scholar,  expedite  the  mastery  of 
the  art  which  makes  the  fleeting  human  voice 
an  abiding,  imperishable  power.  The  grateful 
teacher  exh:iusted  all  his  lore  upon  the  pupil 
whose  genius  he  had  freed — whose  heart  had 
subdued  himself.  Before  leaving,  George  was 
much  perplexed  how  to  offer  to  Waife  any  oth- 
er remuneration  than  that  which,  in  Waife's  es- 
timate, had  already  overpaid  all  the  benefits  he 
had  received — viz., unquestioning  friendship  and 
pledged  protection.  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that 
George  thought  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  for- 
tune and  happiness  was  entitled  to  something 
beyond  that  moral  recompense.  But  he  found, 
at  the  first  delicate  hint,  that  Waife  would  not 
hear  of  money,  though  the  ex-Comedian  did 
not  affect  any  very  Quixotic  notions  on  that 
practical  subject.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth.  Sir, 
I  have  rather  a  superstition  against  having  more 
money  in  my  hands  than  I  know  what  to  do 
with.  It  has  always  brought  me  bad  luck.  And 
what  is  very  hard — the  bad  luck  stays,  but  the 
money  goes.  There  was  that  splendid  sum  I 
made  at  Gainsboro'.  You  should  have  seen  me 
counting  it  over.  I  could  not  have  had  a  proud- 
er or  more  swelling  heart  if  I  had  been  that 
great  man  Mr.  Elwes  the  miser.  And  what  bad 
luck  it  brought  me,  and  how  it  all  frittered  it- 
self away !  Nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a  silk 
ladder  and  an  old  hurdy-gurdy,  and  1  sold  t/ietn 
at  half-price.  Then,  when  I  had  the  accident 
which  cost  me  this  eye,  the  railway  people  be- 
haved so  generously,  gave  me  £120  —  think  of 
that !  And  before  three  days  the  money  was  all 
gone !" 

"How  was  that?"  said  George,  half  amused, 
half  pained;  "stolen,  perhaps?" 

"Not  so,"  answered  Waife,  somewhat  gloom- 
ily, "but  restored.  A  poor  dear  old  man,  who 
thought  very  ill  of  me  —  and  I  don't  wonder  at 
it — was  reduced  from  great  wealth  to  great  j)Ov- 
erty.  While  I  was  laid  up  my  landlady  read  a 
newspaper  to  me,  and  in  that  newspaper  was  an 
account  of  his  reverse  and  destittition.  But  I 
was  accountable  to  him  for  the  balance  of  an 
old  debt,  and  that,  with  the  doctor's  bills,  quite 
covered  my  £120.  I  hope  he  does  not  think 
quite  so  ill  of  me  now.  But  the  money  brought 
good  luck  to  him  rather  than  to  me.  Well,  Sir, 
if  you  were  now  to  give  me  money  I  should  be 
on  the  look-out  for  some  mournful  calamity. 
Gold  is  not  natural  to  me.  Some  day,  however, 
by-and-by,  when  you  are  inducted  into  your  liv- 
ing, and  have  become  a  renowned  preacher,  and 
have  jdonty  to  spare,  with  an  idea  that  you 
would  feel  more  comfortable  in  your  mind  if 
you  had  done  something  royal  for  the  basket- 
maker,  I  will  ask  you  to  help  me  to  make  up  a 
sum  which  I  am  trying  by  degrees  to  save —  an 
enormous  sum — as  much  as  I  paid  away  from 
my  railway  com])ensation — I  owe  it  to  the  lady 
who  lent  it  to  release  Sojihy  from  an  engage- 
ment which  I — certainly  without  any  remorse 
of  conscience — made  the  child  break." 

"  Oh  yes  !  What  is  the  amount  ?  Let  me  at 
least  repay  that  debt." 

"  Not  yet.  The  lady  can  wait — and  she  would 
be  pleased  to  wait,  because  she  deserves  to  wait 
— it  would  ha  unkind  to  her  to  pay  it  off  at  once. 
But  in  thx!  mean  while,  if  you  could  send  me  a 
few  good  books  for  Sophy  ?  —  instructive  ;  yet 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


133 


not  very,  very  dry.  And  a  French  dictionary — 
I  can  teach  her  French  when  the  winter  days 
close  in.  You  see  I  am  not  above  beinj:;  j)aid, 
Sir.  But,  Mr.  Morlcy,  there  is  a  great  favor  you 
can  do  me." 

"What  is  it?     Speak." 

"Cautiously  refrain  from  doing  mc  a  great 
disservice  !  You  are  going  back  to  your  friends 
and  relations.  Never  sjicak  of  me  to  them. 
Never  describe  me  and  my  odd  ways.  Name 
not  the  lady,  nor  —  nor  —  nor  —  the  man  who 
claimed  Sophy.  Your  friends  might  not  hurt 
me,  others  might.  Talk  travels.  The  Hare  is 
not  long  in  its  form  when  it  has  a  friend  in  a 
Hound  that  gives  tongue.  Promise  what  I  ask. 
Promise  it  as  'man  and  gentleman.'" 

"  Certainly.  Yet  I  have  one  relation  to  whom 
I  should  like,  with  your  ]>crnHssian,  to  speak  of 
you — with  whom  I  could  wish  you  acquainted. 
He  is  so  thorough  a  man  of  the  world  that  he 
might  suggest  some  method  to  clear  your  good 
name,  which  you  yourself  would  approve.  My 
uncle,  Colonel  Morley — " 

"On  no  account!"  cried  Waife,  almost  fierce- 
ly, and  he  evinced  so  much  anger  and  uneasi- 
ness that  it  was  long  before  George  could  j)aci- 
fy  him  by  the  most  earnest  assurances  that  his 
secret  should  be  inviolably  kept,  and  his  injunc- 
tions faitlifully  obeyed.  No  men  of  llie  world 
consulted  how  to  force  hini  back  to  the  world 
of  men  that  he  fled  from !  No  colonels  to  scan 
him  with  martinet  eyes,  and  hint  how  to  pipe- 
clay a  tarnish !  Waife's  apprehensions  gradu- 
ally allayed,  and  his  confidence  restored,  one 
fine  morning  George  took  leave  of  his  eccentric 
benefactor. 

Waife  and  Sophy  stood  gazing  after  him  from 
their  garden-gate ;  the  cripple  leaning  lightly 
on  the  child's  arm.  She  looked  with  anxious 
fondness  into  the  old  man's  thoughtful  face, 
and  clung  to  him  more  closely  as  slie  looked. 

"Will  you  not  be  dull,  jjoor  gi-andy?  Will 
you  not  miss  him  ?" 

"A  little  at  first,"  said  Waife,  rousing  him- 
self. "  Education  is  a  great  thing.  An  edu- 
cated mind,  provided  that  it  does  us  no  mischief 
— which  is  not  always  the  case — can  not  be  with- 
drawn from  our  existence  without  leaving  a  blank 
behind.  Sophy,  we  must  seriously  set  to  work 
and  educate  ourselves!" 

"  We  will,  grandy  dear,"  said  Sophy,  with  de- 
cision; and  a  few  minutes  afterward,  "If  I  can 
become  very,  very  clever,  you  will  not  pine  so 
much  after  that  gentleman— will  you,  grandy?" 


CHAPTER  VL 

Being  a  chapter  that  comes  to  an  untimely  end. 

Winter  was  far  advanced  when  Montfort 
Court  was  again  brightened  by  the  presence  of 
its  lady.  A  polite  letter  from  Mr.  Carr  Vipont 
had  reached  her  before  leaving  Windsor,  sug- 
gesting how  much  it  would  be  for  the  advantage 
of  the  Vipont  interest  if  she  would  consent  to 
visit  for  a  month  or  two  the  seat  in  Ireland, 
which  had  been  too  long  neglected,  and  at 
which  my  lord  would  join  her  on  his  departure 
from  his  Highland  moors.  So  to  Ireland  went 
Lady  Montfort.  My  lord  did  not  join  lier  there ; 
but  Mr.  Carr  Vipont  deemed  it  desirable  for  the 


Vipont  interest  that  the  wedded  pair  should  re- 
unite at  Montfort  Court,  where  all  the  Vipont 
family  were  invited  to  witness  their  felicity  or 
mitigate  their  cmitii. 

But,  before  proceeding  another  stage  in  this 
history,  it  becomes  a  just  tribute  of  respect  to 
the  great  House  of  Vipont  to  pause  and  ])lace 
its  past  records  and  i>rescnt  grandeur  in  fuller 
display  before  the  reverential  reader.  Tke 
House  of  Vipont!  What  am  I  about?  The 
House  of  Vipont  requires  a  chapter  to  itself. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  House  op  Vipont. — "  Majora  cayiamus." 

The  House  of  Vipont !  Looking  back  through 
ages,  it  seems  as  if  the  House  of  Vipont  were 
one  continuous,  living  idiosyncrasy,  having  in 
its  progressive  development  a  connected  unity 
of  thought  and  action,  so  that  through  all  the 
changes  of  its  outward  form  it  had  been  moved 
and  guided  by  the  same  single  spirit — "  Le  roi 
est  viort — v'lve  le  roi  T' — A  Vipont  dies — live  the 
Vipont !  Despite  its  high-sounding  Norman 
name,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  no  House  at  all 
for  some  generations  after  the  Conquest.  The 
first  Vipont  who  emerged  from  the  obscurity  of 
time  was  a  rude  soldier,  of  Gascon  origin,  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  II. ;  one  of  the  thousand  fight- 
ing men  who  sailed  from  Milford  Haven  with 
the  stout  Earl  of  Pembroke,  on  that  strange  ex- 
pedition which  ended  in  the  con(}uest  of  Ire- 
land. This  gallant  man  obtained  large  grants 
of  land  in  that  fertile  island — some  Mac  or  some 
O'  vanished,  and  the  House  of  Vipont  rose. 

During  the  reign  of  Richard  I.  the  House  of 
Vipont,  though  recalled  to  England  (leaving  its 
Irish  acquisitions  in  charge  of  a  fierce  cadet, 
who  served  as  middleman),  excused  itself  from 
tiie  Crusade,  and,  by  marriage  with  a  rich  gold- 
smith's daughter,  was  enabled  to  lend  moneys  to 
those  who  indulged  in  that  exciting  but  costlv 
pilgrimage.  In  the  reign  of  John  the  House  of 
Vipont  foreclosed  its  mortgages  on  lands  thus 
pledged,  and  became  possessed  of  a  very  fair 
property  in  England,  as  well  as  its  fiefs  in  the 
sister  isle. 

The  House  of  Vipont  took  no  part  in  the 
troublesome  politics  of  that  day.  Discreetly 
obscure,  it  attended  to  its  own  fortunes,  and  felt 
small  interest  in  Magna  Charta.  During  the 
reigns  of  the  Plantagenet  Edwards,  who  were 
great  encouragers  of  mercantile  adventure,  the 
House  of  Vipont,  shunning  Creci,  Bannockburn, 
and  such  profitless  brawls,  internuxrricd  with 
London  traders,  and  got  many  a  good  thing  out 
of  the  Genoese.  In  the  reign  of  Ilenry  IV.  the 
House  of  Vipont  reaped  the  benefit  of  its  i)ast 
forbearance  and  modesty.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  the  Viponts  appear  as  belted  knights — 
they  have  armorial  bearings — they  are  Lancas- 
terian  to  the  back-bone — they  are  exceedingly 
indignant  against  heretics — they  burn  the  Lol- 
lards— they  have  j)laces  in  the  household  of 
Queen  Joan,  who  was  called  a  witch,  but  a 
witch  is  a  very  good  friend  when  she  wields  a 
sceptre  instead  of  a  broomstick.  And  in  i)roof 
of  its  growing  importance,  the  House  of  Vipont 
marries  a  daughter  of  the  then  mighty  House 
of  Darrell.     lu  the  reign  of  Henry  V.,  during 


134 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


the  invasion  of  France,  the  House  of  Vipont — 
being  afraid  of  the  dysentery  which  carried  off 
more  brave  fellows  than  the  field  of  Agincourt 
— contrived  to  be  a  minor.  The  Wars  of  the 
Roses  puzzled  the  House  of  Vipont  sadly.  But 
it  went  through  that  perilous  ordeal  with  sin- 
gular tact  and  success.  The  manner  in  which 
it  changed  sides,  each  change  safe,  and  most 
changes  lucrative,  is  beyond  all  praise. 

On  the  whole,  it  preferred  the  Yorkists ;  it 
was  impossible  to  be  actively  Lancasterian,  with 
Henry  VI.  of  Lancaster  always  in  prison.  And 
thus,  at  the  death  of  Edward  IV.,  the  House  of 
Vipont  was  Baron  Vipont  of  Vi]Jont,  with  twen- 
ty manors.  Richard  IH.  counted  on  the  House 
of  Vipont,  when  he  left  London  to  meet  Rich- 
mond at  Bosworth — he  counted  without  his  host. 
The  House  of  Vipont  became  again  intensely 
Lancasterian,  and  was  among  the  first  to  crowd 
round  the  litter  in  which  Henry  VII.  entered 
the  metropolis.  In  that  reign  it  married  a  re- 
lation of  Empson's — did  the  great  House  of  Vi- 
pont !  and  as  nobles  of  elder  date  had  become 
scarce  and  poor,  Henry  VII.  was  pleased  to  make 
the  House  of  Vipont  an  earl — the  Earl  of  JNIont- 
fort.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  instead  of 
burning  Lollards,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  all 
for  the  Reformation — it  obtained  the  lands  of 
two  priories  and  one  abbey.  Gorged  Mith  that 
spoil,  the  House  of  Vipont,  like  an  anaconda  in 
the  process  of  digestion,  slept  long.  But  no,  it 
slept  not.  Tliough  it  kept  itself  still  as  a  mouse 
during  the  reign  of  bloody  Queen  Mary  (only 
letting  if  be  known  at  court  that  the  House  of 
Vipont  had  strong  papal  leanings) ;  though  dur- 
ing the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  it  made 
no  noise,  the  House  of  Vipont  was  silently  in- 
flating its  lungs,  and  improving  its  constitution. 
Slept,  indeed  !  it  was  wide  awake.  Then  it  was 
that  it  began  systematically  its  grand  policy  of 
alliances ;  then  was  it  sedulously  grafting  its 
olive  branches  on  the  stems  of  those  fruitful 
New  Houses  that  had  sprung  up  with  the  Tu- 
dors ;  then,  alive  to  the  spirit  of  the  day,  prov- 
ident of  the  wants  of  the  mon-ow,  over  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land  it  wove  the  in- 
terlacing net-work  of  useful  cousinhood !  Then, 
too,  it  began  to  build  palaces,  to  inclose  parks 
—  it  traveled,  too,  a  little  —  did  the  House  of 
Vipont !  It  visited  Italy — it  conceived  a  taste ; 
a  very  elegant  House  became  the  House  of  Vi- 
pont !  And  in  James's  reign,  for  the  first  time, 
the  House  of  Vipont  got  the  Garter.  The  Civil 
Wars  broke  out — England  was  rant.  Peer  and 
knight  took  part  with  one  side  or  the  other. 
The  House  of  Vipont  was  again  perplexed. 
Certainly  at  the  commencement  it  was  all  for 
King  Charles.  But  when  King  Charles  took  to 
fighting,  the  House  of  Vipont  shook  its  saga- 
cious head,  and  went  about,  like  Lord  Falkland, 
sighing  "Peace,  peace!"  Finally  it  remem- 
bered its  neglected  estates  in  Ireland — its  duties 
called  it  thither.  To  Ireland  it  went,  discreet- 
ly sad,  and,  marrying  a  kinswoman  of  Lord 
Fauconberg — the  only  popular  and  safe  connec- 
tion formed  by  the  Lord  Protector's  family — it 
was  safe  when  Cromwell  visited  L-eland ;  and 
no  less  safe  when  Charles  II.  was  restored  to 
England.  During  the  reign  of  the  merry  mon- 
arch the  House  of  Vipont  was  a  courtier,  mar- 
ried a  beauty,  got  the  Garter  again,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  became  the  fashion.     Fashion  began  I 


to  be  a  Power.  In  the  reign  of  James  II.  the 
House  of  Vipont  again  contrived  to  be  a  minor, 
who  came  of  age  just  in  time  to  take  the  oaths 
of  fealty  to  William  and  Mary.  In  case  of  ac- 
cidents, the  House  of  Vipont  kept  on  friendly 
terms  with  the  exiled  Stuarts,  but  it  wi-ote  no 
letters,  and  got  into  no  scrapes.  It  was  not, 
however,  till  the  Government,  under  Sir  R.  Wal- 
pole,  established  the  constitutional  and  parlia- 
mentary system  which  characterizes  modern 
freedom  that  the  puissance  accumulated  through 
successive  centuries  by  the  House  of  Vipont  be- 
came pre-eminently  visible.  By  that  time  its 
lands  were  vast,  its  wealth  enormous ;  its  parlia- 
mentary influence,  as  "a  Great  House,"  was 
now  a  part  of  the  British  Constitution.  At  this 
period  the  House  of  Vipont  found  it  convenient 
to  rend  itself  into  two  grand  divisions  —  the 
peer's  branch  and  the  commoner's.  The  House 
of  Commons  had  become  so  important  that  it 
was  necessary  for  the  House  of  Vipont  to  be 
represented  there  by  a  great  commoner.  Thus 
arose  the  family  of  "Carr  Vipont.  That  division 
— owing  to  a  marriage  settlement  favoring  a 
younger  son  by  the  heiress  of  the  Carrs — car- 
ried oif  a  good  slice  from  the  estate  of  the  earl- 
dom— uno  averso,  non  deficit  alter ;  tlie  earldom 
mourned,  but  replaced  the  loss  by  two  wealthy 
wedlocks  of  its  own  ;  and  had  since  seen  cause 
to  rejoice  that  its  power  in  the  L'pper  Chamber 
was  strengthened  by  such  aid  in  the  Lower. 
For,  thanks  to  its  parliamentary  influence,  and 
the  aid  of  the  great  commoner,  in  the  reign  of 
George  HI.  the  House  of  Vipont  became  a  Mar- 
quis. From  that  time  to  the  present  day  the 
House  of  Vipont  had  gone  on  pi-ospering  and 
progressive.  It  was  to  the  aristocracy  what  the 
Times  newspaper  is  to  the  press.  The  same  quick 
sympathy  with  public  feeling — the  same  unity 
of  tone  and  purpose — the  same  adaptability — 
and  something  of  the  same  lofty  tone  of  superi- 
ority to  the  petty  interests  of  party.  It  may  be 
conceded  that  the  House  of  Vipont  was  less  brill- 
iant than  the  Times  newspaper,  but  eloquence 
andwit,  necessary  to  the  duration  of  a  newspaper, 
were  not  necessary  to  that  of  the  House  of  Vi- 
pont. Had  they  been  so, it  would  have  had  them ! 
The  Head  of  the  House  of  Vipont  rarely  con- 
descended to  take  oSice.  With  a  rent-roll  loose- 
ly estimated  at  about  £170,000  a  year,  it  is  be- 
neath a  man  to  take  from  the  public  a  paltry  five 
or  six  thousand  a  year,  and  undergo  all  the  un- 
dignified abuse  of  popular  assemblies,  and  "a 
ribald  press."  But  it  was  a  matter  of  course 
that  the  House  of  Vipont  should  be  represented 
in  any  cabinet  that  a  constitutional  monarch 
could  be  advised  to  form.  Since  the  time  of 
Walpole,  a  Vipont  was  always  in  the  service  of 
his  country,  except  in  those  rare  instances  when 
the  country  was  infamously  misgoverned.  The 
cadets  of  the  House,  or  the  senior  member  of 
the  great  commoner's  branch  of  it,  sacrificed 
their  ease  to  fulfill  that  duty.  The  Montfort 
marquises  in  general  were  contented  with  situ- 
ations of  honor  in  the  household,  as  of  Lord 
Steward,  Lord  Chamberlain,  or  Master  of  the 
Horse,  etc. — not  onerous  dignities ;  and  even 
these  they  only  deigned  to  accept  on  those  es- 
pecial occasions  when  danger  threatened  the 
Star  of  Brunswick,  and  the  sense  of  its  exalted 
station  forbade  the  House  of  Vipont  to  leave  its 
country  in  the  dark. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


135 


Great  Houses  like  that  of  Yipont  assist  the 
work  of  civilization  by  the  law  of  their  exist- 
ence. Tiicv  arc  sure  to  liave  a  spirited  and 
wealthy  tenantry,  to  whom,  if  but  for  the  sake 
of  that  popular  character  which  doubles  politic- 
al influence,  they  are  liberal  and  kindly  land- 
lords. Under  their  sway  fens  and  sands  become 
fertile — agricultural  experiments  arc  tested  on 
a  larijc  scale — cattle  and  sheep  improve  in  breed 
— national  cajjital  augmeuts,  and,  sjiringing  be- 
neath the  plowshare,  circulates  indirectly  to 
speed  the  ship  and  animate  the  loom.  Had 
there  been  no  Woburn,  no  Holkham,  no  Mont- 
fort  Court,  England  would  be  the  poorer  by 
manv  a  million.  Our  great  Houses  tend  also 
to  the  relinement  of  national  taste  ;  they  have 
their  show-i)laces,  their  picture-galleries,  their 
beautiful  grounds.  The  humblest  drawing-rooms 
owe  an  elegance  or  comfort — the  smallest  gar- 
den, a  Hower  or  esculent — to  the  importations 
which  luxury  bon-owed  from  abroad,  or  the  in- 
ventions it  stimulated  at  home,  for  the  original 
benefit  of  great  Houses.  Having  a  fair  share 
of  such  merits,  in  common  with  other  great 
Houses,  the  House  of  Yipont  was  not  without 
good  qualities  peculiar  to  itself.  Precisely  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  egotistical  of  Houses,  fill- 
ed with  the  sense  of  its  own  identity,  and  guided 
by  the  instincts  of  its  own  conservation,  it  was 
a  very  civil,  good-natured  House — courteous, 
generous,  hospitable  ;  a  House  (I  mean  the  Head 
of  it — not,  of  course,  all  its  subordinate  mem- 
bers, including  even  the  august  Lady  Selina) 
tliat  could  bow  graciously,  and  shake  liands  with 
you.  Even  if  you  had  no  vote  yourself,  you 
might  have  a  cousin  who  had  a  vote.  And  once 
admitted  into  the  family,  the  House  adojjtcd 
you ;  you  liad  only  to  marry  one  of  its  remotest 
relations,  and  the  House  sent  you  a  wedding 
present ;  and  at  every  general  election  invited 
you  to  rally  round  your  connection — the  JNIar- 
quis.  Therefore,  next  only  to  the  Established 
Church,  the  House  of  Yipont  was  that  British 
institution  the  roots  of  which  v/ere  the  most 
widely  spread. 

Now  the  Yiponts  had  for  long  generations 
been  an  energetic  race.  Whatever  their  de- 
fects, they  had  exhibited  shrewdness  and  vigor. 
The  late  ^larquis  (grandfather  to  the  present) 
had  been,  perhaps,  the  ablest  (that  is,  done  most 
for  the  House  of  Yipont)  of  them  all.  Of  a 
grandiose  and  superb  mode  of  living — of  a  ma- 
jestic deportment — of  princely  manners — of  a 
remarkable  talent  for  the  management  of  all 
business,  whether  private  or  jjublic — a  perfect 
enthusiast  for  the  House  of  Yipont,  and  aided 
by  a  marchioness  in  all  respects  wortliy  of  him, 
he  might  be  said  to  be  the  culminating  flower 
of  the  venerable  stem.  But  the  present  lord, 
succeeding  to  the  title  as  a  mere  child,  was  a 
melancholy  contrast,  not  only  to  his  grandsire, 
but  to  the  general  character  of  his  progenitors. 
Before  his  time  every  head  of  the  House  had 
done  something  for  it — even  the  most  frivolous 
had  contributed ;  one  had  collected  the  pictures, 
another  the  statues,  a  third  the  medals,  a  fourth 
had  amassed  the  famous  Yipont  library;  while 
others  had  at  least  married  heiresses,  or  aug- 
mented, through  ducal  lines,  the  splendor  of  the 
interminable  cousinhood.  The  present  marquis 
was  literally  nil.  The  pith  of  the  Yiponts  was 
not  in  him.    He  looked  well,  he  dressed  well ; 


if  life  were  only  the  dumb  show  of  a  tableau,  he 
would  have  been  a  paragon  of  a  Marquis.  But 
he  was  like  the  watches  we  give  to  little  chil- 
dren, with  a  pretty  gilt  dial-plate,  and  no  works 
in  them.  He  was  thoroughly  inert — there  was 
no  winding  him  u]j ;  he  could  not  manage  his 
property — he  could  not  answer  his  letters — very 
few  of  them  could  he  even  read  through.  Pol- 
itics did  not  interest  him,  nor  literature,  nor 
ficld-sj)orts.  He  shot,  it  is  true,  but  mechanic- 
ally— wondering,  perhaps,  why  he  did  shoot.  He 
attended  races,  because  the  House  of  Yijjont  kept 
a  racing  stud.  He  bet  on  his  own  horses,  but  if 
they  lost  showed  no  vexation.  Admirers  (no 
Marquis  of  Jlontfort  could  be  wholly  without 
them)  said,  ''What  fine  temjicr!  wluit  good- 
breeding  !"'  it  was  nothing  but  constitutional 
apathy.  No  one  could  call  hiui  a  bad  man — 
he  was  not  a  profligate,  an  ojipressor,  a  miser,  a 
spendthrift ;  he  would  not  have  taken  the  trou- 
ble to  be  a  bad  man  on  any  account.  Those 
who  beheld  his  character  at  a  distance  would 
have  called  him  an  exemplan-  man.  The  more 
conspicuous  duties  of  his  station,  subscriptions, 
charities,  the  maintenance  of  grand  establish- 
ments, the  encouragement  of  the  fine  arts,  were 
virtues  admirably  performed  for  him  by  others. 
But  the  phlegm  or  nullity  of  his  being  was  not, 
after  all,  so  complete  as  I  have  made  it,  perhaps, 
aj)pear.  He  had  one  susceptibility  which  is 
more  common  with  women  than  with  men — the 
suscejjtibility  to  pique.  His  amour  projire  was 
unforgiving — pique  that,  and  he  could  do  a  rash 
thing,  a  foolish  thing,  a  spiteful  thing — pique 
that,  and,  prodigious!  the  watch  went !  He  had 
a  rooted  pique  against  his  marchioness.  Apjjar- 
ently  he  had  conceived  this  pique  from  the  very 
first.  He  showed  it  passively  by  supreme  ne- 
glect ;  he  showed  it  actively  by  removing  her 
from  all  the  spheres  of  power  which  naturally 
fall  to  the  wife  when  the  husband  shuns  the  de- 
tails of  business.  Evidently  he  had  a  dread  lest 
any  one  should  say,  '"Lady  Montfort  influences 
my  lord."  Accordingly,  not  only  the  manage- 
ment of  his  estates  fell  to  Carr  Yipont,  but  even 
of  his  gardens,  his  household,  his  domestic  ar- 
rangements. It  was  Carr  Yipont  or  Lady  Se- 
lina who  said  to  Lady  ilontfort,  "  Give  a  ball ;" 
"  You  should  ask  so  and  so  to  dinner."  "  Mont- 
fort was  much  hurt  to  see  the  old  lawn  at  the 
Tmckenham  Yilla  broken  up  by  those  new  bos- 
quets. True,  it  is  settled  on  you  as  a  jointure 
house,  but  for  that  verj'  reason  iloutfort  is  sens- 
itive," etc.,  etc.  In  fact,  they  were  virtually  as 
separated,  my  lord  and  my  lady,  as  if  legally 
disunited,  and  as  if  Carr  Yipont  and  Lady  Se- 
lina were  trustees  or  intenm;diaries  in  any  po- 
lite approach  to  each  other.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  where  Lady  IMout- 
fort"s  s])here  of  action  did  not  interfere  with  her 
husband's  plans,  habits,  likings,  dislikings,  jeal- 
ous ajjprehcnsions,  that  she  should  be  supposed 
to  have  any  ascendency  over  what  exclusively 
belonged  to  himself  as  Rot  faineant  of  the  Vi- 
pont's,  she  was  left  free  as  air.  No  attempt  at 
masculine  control  or  conjugal  advice.  At  her 
disposal  was  wealth  without  stint — every  luxury 
the  soft  could  desire — every  gewgaw  the  vain 
could  covet.  Had  her  pin-money,  which  was  in 
itself  the  revenue  of  an  ordinary  peeress,  failed 
to  satisfy  her  wants — had  she  grown  tired  of 
wearing  the  family  diamonds  and  coveted  new 


13G 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


gems  from  Golconda — a  single  word  to  Carr  Vi- 
pont  or  Lady  8elina  would  have  been  answered 
by  a  carte  blanche  on  the  Bank  of  England.  But 
Lady  Montfort  had  the  misfortune  not  to  be  ex- 
travagant in  her  tastes.  Strange  to  say,  in  the 
world  Lord  Montfort's  marriage  was  called  a 
love  match  ;  ho  had  married  a  portionless  girl, 
daughter  to  one  of  his  poorest  and  obscurest 
cousins,  against  the  uniform  j)olicy  of  the  House 
of  Vipont,  which  did  all  it  could  for  poor  cous- 
ins except  marrying  them  to  its  chief.  But  Lady 
Jlontfon's  conduct  in  these  trying  circumstances 
was  admirable  and  rare.  Few  affronts  can  hu- 
miliate us  unless  we  resent  them — and  in  vain. 
Lady  Montfort  had  that  exquisite  dignity  wliich 
gives  to  submission  the  grace  of  cheerful  acqui- 
escence. That  in  the  gay  world  flatterers  should 
gather  round  a  young  wife  so  eminently  beauti- 
ful, and  so  wholly  left  by  her  husband  to  her 
own  guidance,  was  inevitable.  But  at  the  very 
first  insinuated  compliment  or  pathetic  condo- 
lence, Lady  Montfort,  so  meek  in  her  house- 
hold, was  haughty  enough  to  have  daunted  Love- 
lace. She  was  thus  very  early  felt  to  be  beyond 
temptation,  and  the  boldest  passed  on  norpre- 
sumed  to  tempt.  She  was  unpopular;  called 
"proud  and  freezing;"  she  did  not  extend  the 
influence  of  The  House  ;  she  did  not  confirm  its 
fashion — fashion  which  necessitates  social  ease, 
and  which  no  rank,  no  wealth,  no  virtue  can  of 
themselves  suffice  to  give.  And  this  failure  on 
her  part  was  a  great  oflTense  in  the  eyes  of  the 
House  of  Vipont.  "  She  does  absolutely  nothing 
for  us,"  said  Lady  Selina;  but  Lady  Selina  in 
her  heart  was  well  pleased  that  to  her  in  reality 
thus  fell,  almost  without  a  rival,  the  female  rep- 
resentation, in  the  great  world,  of  the  Vipont 
honors.     Lady  Selina  was  fiishion  itself. 

Lady  Montfort's  social  peculiarity  was  in  the 
eagerness  with  which  she  sought  the  society  of 
persons  wlio  enjoyed  a  reputation  for  superior 
intellect,  whether  statesmen,  lawyers,  authors, 
philosophers,  artists.  Intellectual  intercourse 
seemed  as  if  it  was  her  native  atmosphere,  from 
which  she  was  habitually  banished,  to  which  she 
returned  with  an  instinctive  3-earning  and  a  new 
zest  of  life ;  yet  was  she  called,  even  here,  nor 
seemingly  without  justice — capricious  and  un- 
steady in  her  likings.  These  clever  personages, 
after  a  little  while,  all  seemed  to  disappoint  her 
expectations  of  them ;  she  sought  the  acquaint- 
ance of  each  with  cordial  earnestness  ;  slid  from 
the  acquaintance  with  weary  languor;  never, 
after  all,  less  a'one  than  wbcn  alone. 

And  so  wondrous  lovely !  Notiiing  so  rare  as 
beauty  of  the  high  type ;  genius  and  beaut}',  in- 
deed, are  both  rare  ;  genius,  which  is  the  beauty 
of  the  mind— beauty,  which  is  the  genius  of  the 
body.  But,  of  the  two,  beauty  is  the  rarer.  All 
of  us  can  count  on  our  fingers  some  forty  or 
fifty  persons  of  undoubted  and  illustrious  genius, 
including  those  famous  in  action,  letters,  art. 
But  can  any  of  us  remember  to  have  seen  more 
than  four  or  five  specimens  of  first-rate  ideal 
beauty  ?  Whosoever  had  seen  Lady  Montfort 
would  have  ranked  her  among  such  four  or  five 
in  his  recollection.  There  was  in  her  face  that 
lustrous  dazzle  to  which  the  Latin  poet,  jier- 
haps,  refers  when  he  speaks  of  the 

"  Nitor 
Splendentis  Pario  niarmoie  purius  .   .  . 
Et  voltus,  nimium  lubricus  adspici," 


and  which  an  English  poet,  with  the  less  sensu- 
ous but  more  spiritual  imagination  of  northern 
genius,  has  described  in  lines  that  an  English 
reader  may  be  pleased  to  see  rescued  from 
oblivion : 

'•Her  face  was  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky, 
A  iiieetliig  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name."  • 

The  eyes  so  ])urely  bright,  the  exquisite  har- 
mony of  coloring  between  the  dark  (not  too  dark) 
hair,  and  the  ivory  of  the  skin;  such  sweet 
radiance  in  the  lip  when  it  broke  into  a  smile. 
And  it  was  said  that  in  her  maiden  day,  before 
Caroline  Lyndsay  became  Marchioness  of  Mont- 
fort, that  smile  was  the  most  joyous  thing  im- 
aginable. Absurd  now;  you  would  not  think 
it,  but  that  stately  lady  had  been  a  wild,  fanci- 
ful girl,  with  the  merriest  laugli  and  the  quick- 
est tear,  filling  the  air  round  her  witli  April  sun- 
shine. Certainly,  no  beings  ever  yet  lived  the 
life  Nature  intended  them  to  live,  nor  had  fair 
play  for  heart  and  mind,  who  contrived,  by  hook 
or  by  crook — to  marry  the  wrong  person ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  interior  of  the  Great  House.     The  British  Constitu- 
tion at  home  in  a  Family  Party. 

Great  was  the  family  gathering  that  Christ- 
mas tide  at  Montfort  Court.  Thither  flocked 
the  cousins  of  the  House  in  all  degrees  and  of 
various  ranks.  From  dukes  who  had  nothing 
left  to  M'ish  for  that  kings  and  cousinhoods  can 
give,  to  briefless  barristers  and  aspiring  cornets, 
of  equally  good  blood  with  the  dukes — the  superb 
family  united  its  motley  scions.  Such  re'unions 
were  frequent,  they  belonged  to  the  hereditary 
policy  of  the  House  of  Vipont.  On  this  occa- 
sion the  muster  of  the  clan  was  more  significant 
than  usual;  there  was  a  "crisis"  in  the  con- 
stitutional history  of  the  British  empire.  A  new 
Government  had  been  suddenly  formed  within 
the  last  six  weeks,  which  certainly  ])ortended 
some  direful  blow  on  our  ancient  institutions, 
for  the  House  of  Vipont  had  not  been  consulted 
in  its  arrangements,  and  was  wholly  unrepre- 
sented in  the  Ministry,  even  by  a  lordship  of 
the  Treasury.  Carr  Vipont  had  therefore  sum- 
moned the  patriotic  and  resentfid  kindred. 

It  is  an  hour  or  so  after  the  conclusion  of  din- 
ner. The  gentlemen  have  joined  the  ladies  in 
the  state  suite — a  suite  which  the  last  Marquis 
had  rearranged  and  redecorated  in  his  old  age 
— during  the  long  illness  that  finally  conducted 
him  to  his  ancestors.  During  his  earlier  years 
that  princely  iMarquis  had  deserted  Montfort 
Court  for  a  seat  nearer  to  London,  and  there- 
fore much  more  easily  filled  with  that  brilliant 
society  of  which  he  had  been  long  the  ornament 
and  centre.  Railways  not  then  existing  for  the 
annihilation  of  time  and  space,  and  a  journey 
to  a  northern  county  four  days  with  post-horses, 
making  the  invitations  even  of  a  Marquis  of 
Montfort  unalluring  to  languid  beauties  and 
gouty  ministers.  But  nearing  the  end  of  his 
worldly  career,  this  long  neglect  of  the  dwelling 
identified  with  his  hereditary  titles  smote  the 
conscience  of  the  illustrious  sinner.  And  other 
occupations  beginning  to  pall,  his  lordship,  ac- 
companied and  cheered  by  a  chajdain,  who  had 
a  fine  taste  in  the  decorative  arts,  came  resolute- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


137 


ly  to  Montfort  Court ;  and  there,  surrounded 
with  architects,  and  gilders,  and  upholsterers, 
redeemed  his  errors ;  and  soothed  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  palace  provided  for  his  successor, 
added  to  his  vaults — a  coftin. 

The  suite  expands  before  the  eve.  You  arc 
in  the  jrrand  drawing-room,  copied  from  that 
of  Versailles.  That  is  the  jiicture,  full  length, 
of  the  late  Marquis  in  his  robes  ;  its  pendent  is 
the  late  Marchioness,  his  wife.  'J'hat  table  of 
malachite  is  a  present  from  the  Russian  Em- 
peror Alexander ;  that  vase  of  Sevre  which  rests 
on  it  was  made  for  ilarie  Antoinette — see  her 
portrait  enameled  in  its  centre.  Through  the 
open  door  at  the  far  end  your  eye  loses  itself  in 
a  vista  of  other  pompous  chambers — the  music- 
room,  the  statue  hall,  the  orangery  ;  other  rooms 
there  are  appertaining  to  the  suite — a  ball-room 
fit  for  Babylon,  a  library  that  might  have  adorn- 
ed Alexandria — but  they  are  not  lighted,  nor  re- 
quired, on  this  occasion ;  it  is  strictly  a  family 
party,  sixty  guests  and  no  more. 

In  the  drawing-room  three  whist-tables  carry 
oflf  the  more  elderly  and  grave.  The  piano,  in 
the  music-room,  attracts  a  youtiger  grouj).  Lady 
Selina  Vipont's  eldest  daughter  Ilonoria,  a  young 
lady  not  yet  brought  out,  but  about  to  be  brought 
out  the  next  season,  is  threading  a  wonderfully 
intricate  German  piece — 

"  Linked  music  long  drawn  out,' 
with  variations.  Iler  science  is  consummate. 
No  pains  have  been  spared  on  her  education  ; 
elaborately  accomplished,  she  is  formed  to  be 
the  sympathizing  spouse  of  a  wealthy  statesman. 
■  Lady  Montfort  is  seated  by  an  elderly  duchess, 
who  is  good-natured,  and  a  great  talker;  near 
her  are  seated  two  middle-aged  gentlemen,  who 
had  been  conversing  with  her  till  the  duchess, 
having  cut  in,  turned  dialogue  into  monologue. 
The  elder  of  these  two  gentlemen  is  iNIr.  Carr 
Vipont,  bald,  with  clipped  parliamentary  whis- 
kers ;  values  himself  on  a  likeness  to  Canning, 
but  with  a  portlier  presence — looks  a  large-acred 
man.  Carr  Vipont  has  about  £-10,000  a  year ; 
has  often  refused  office  for  himself,  while  tak- 
ing care  that  other  Viponts  should  have  it ;  is  a 
great  authority  iit  Committee  business  and  the 
rules  of  the  House  of  Commons ;  speaks  very 
seldom,  and  at  no  great  length,  never  arguing, 
merely  stating  his  opinion,  carries  great  weight 
with  him,  and  as  he  votes,  vote  fifteen  other 
members  of  the  House  of  Vipont,  besides  ad- 
miring satellites.  lie  can  therefore  turn  divi- 
sions, and  has  decided  the  fate  of  cabinets.  A 
pleasant  man,  a  little  consequential,  but  the  re- 
verse of  haughty — unctuously  overbearing.  The 
other  gentleman,  to  whom  he  is  listening,  is  our 
old  acquaintance  Colonel  Alban  Vipont  Morlev 
— DaiTcll's  friend — George's  uncle — a  man  of 
importance,  not  inferior,  indeed,  to  that  of  his 
kinsman  Carr;  an  authority  in  club-rooms,  an 
oracle  in  drawing-rooms,  a  first-rate  man  of  the 
beau  nioiide.  Alban  Morlev,  a  younger  brother, 
had  entered  the  Guards  young;  retired,  young 
also,  from  the  Guards  with  the  rank  of  colonel, 
and  on  receipt  of  a  legacy  from  an  old  aunt, 
which,  with  the  interest  derived  from  the  sum 
at  which  he  sold  his  commission,  allowed  him  a 
clear  income  of  £KMX)  a  year.  This  modest  in- 
come sufficed  for  all  his  wants,  fine  gentleman 
though  he  was.  lie  had  refused  to  go  into  Par- 
liament— refused  a  high  place  in  a  public  de- 


!  partment.  Single  himself,  he  showed  his  rc- 
j  spect  for  wedlock  by  the  interest  he  took  in  the 
marriages  of  other  iieoj)le — ^just  as  Earl  War- 
wick, too  wise  to  set  up  for  a  king,  gratified  his 
passion  for  royalty  by  becoming  the  king-maker. 
The  colonel  was  exceedingly  accomplished,  a 
very  fair  scholar,  knew  most  modern  languages. 
In  painting  an  amateur,  in  music  a  connoisseur; 
witty  at  times,  and  with  wit  of  a  high  quality, 
but  thrifty  in  the  exjienditure  of  it;  too  wise  to 
be  known  as  a  wit.  :Manly  too,  a  daring  rider, 
who  had  won  many  a  fox's  brush,  a  famous 
deer-stalker,  and  one  of  the  few  English  gentle- 
men who  still  keep  up  the  noble  art  of  fencing — 
twice  a  week  to  be  seen,  foil  in  hand,  against  all 
comers  in  Angelo's  rooms.  Thin,  well-thaped 
— not  handsome,  my  dear  young  lady,  far  from 
it,  but  with  an  air  so  thoroughbred,  that,  had 
you  seen  him  in  the  day  when  the  ojiera-liousc 
had  a  crush-room  and  a  fops'  alley — seen  him 
in  either  of  those  resorts,  surrounded  by  elabo- 
rate dandies,  and  showy  beauty-men— ^dandies 
and  beauty-men  would  have  seemed  to  you  sec- 
ond-rate and  vulgar;  and  the  eye,  fascinated  by 
that  quiet  form — j)lain  in  manner,  plain  in  dress, 
jjlain  in  feature — you  would  have  said,  "How 
very  distinguished  it  is  to  be  so  plain !"  Know- 
ing the  great  world  from  the  core  to  the  cuticle, 
and  on  that  knowledge  basing  authority  and 
position,  Colonel  Morlev  was  not  calculating — 
not  cunning — not  suspicious.  His  sagacity  the 
more  quick  because  its  movements  were  straight- 
forward. Intimate  with  the  greatest,  but  sought, 
not  seeking.  Not  a  flatterer  nor  a  parasite. 
But  when  his  advice  was  asked  (even  if  advice 
necessitated  reproof),  giving  it  with  military 
candor.  In  fine,  a  man  of  such  social  reputa- 
tion as  rendered  him  an  ornament  and  prop  to 
the  House  of  Vipont ;  and  with  unsuspected 
depths  of  intelligence  and  feeling  which  lay  in 
the  lower  strata  of  his  knowledge  of  this  world, 
to  witness  of  some  other  one,  and  justified  Dar- 
rell  in  commending  a  boy  like  Lionel  llaughton 
to  the  Colonel's  friendly  care  and  admonitory 
counsels.  The  Colonel,  like  other  men,  had  his 
weakness,  if  weakness  it  can  be  called;  he  be- 
lieved that  the  House  of  Vipont  was  not  merely 
the  Corinthian  capital,  but  the  embattled  keep 
— not  merely  the  du/ce  decus,  but  the  presidium 
columcnque  rerum  of  the  British  monarchy.  He 
did  not  boast  of  his  connection  with  the  House; 
he  did  not  provoke  your  spleen  by  enlarging  on 
its  manifold  virtues ;  he  would  often  have  his 
harmless  jest  against  its  members  or  even  against 
its  pretensions,  but  such  seeming  evidences  of 
forbearance  or  candor  were  cimning  devices  to 
mitigate  envy.  His  devotion  to  the  House  was 
not  obtrusive,  it  was  profound.  He  loved  the 
House  of  Vipont  for  the  sake  of  England,  he 
loved  England  for  the  sake  of  the  House  of  Vi- 
pont. Had  it  been  possible,  by  some  tremen- 
dous reversal  of  the  ordinarj-  laws  of  nature,  to 
dissociate  the  cause  of  England  from  the  cause 
of  the  House  of  Vipont,  the  Colonel  would  have 
said,  "  Save  at  least  the  Ark  of  the  Constitution! 
and  rally  round  the  old  House  I"  • 

The  Colonel  had  none  of  Guy  Darrell's  in- 
firmity of  family  pride  ;  he  cared  not  a  rush  for 
mere  pedigrees — much  too  liberal  and  enlight- 
ened for  such  (Obsolete  prejudices.  No!  He 
knew  the  world  too  well  not  to  be  quite  aware 
that  old  family  and  long  pedigrees  are  of  no  use 


138 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


to  a  man  if  he  has  not  some  money  or  some 
merit.  But  it  was  of  use  to  a  man  to  be  a  cousin 
of  the  House  of  Vipont,  though  without  any 
money,  without  any  merit  at  all.  It  was  of  use 
to  be  part  and  parcel  of  a  British  institution ;  it 
was  of  use  to  have  a  legitimate  indefeasible  right 
to  share  in  the  administration  and  patronage  of 
an  empire,  on  which  (to  use  a  novel  illustration) 
"the  sun  never  sets."  You  might  want  nothing 
for  yourself — the  Colonel  and  the  Marquis  equal- 
ly wanted  nothing  for  themselves ;  but  man  is 
not  to  be  a  selfish  egotist !  Man  has  cousins — 
his  cousins  may  want  something.  •  Demosthenes 
denounces,  in  words  that  inflame  every  manly 
breast,  the  ancient  Greek  who  does  not  love  his 
PoLis  or  State,  even  though  he  take  nothing 
from  it  but  barren  honor,  and  contribute  toward 
it — a  gi-eat  many  disagreeable  taxes.  As  the 
PoLis  to  the  Greek,  was  the  House  of  Vipont  to 
Alban  Vipont  Morley.  It  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful touching  affection  imaginable !  Whenever 
the  House  was  in  difliculties — whenever  it  was 
threatened  by  a  crisis — the  Colonel  was  by  its 
side,  sparing  no  pains,  neglecting  no  means,  to 
get  the  Ark  of  the  Constitution  back  into  smooth 
water.  That  duty  done,  he  retired  again  into 
private  life,  and  scorned  all  other  reward  than 
the  still  whisper  of  applauding  conscience. 

"Yes,"  said  Alban  Morley,  whose  voice, 
though  low  and  subdued  in  tone,  was  extremelv 
distinct,  with  a  perfect  enunciation,  "  Yes,  it 
is  quite  true,  my  nephew  has  taken  orders — his 
defect  in  speech,  if  not  quite  removed,  has  ceased 
to  be  any  obstacle,  even  to  eloquence  ;  an  occa- 
sional stammer  may  be  effective — it  increases 
interest,  and  when  the  right  word  comes,  there 
is  the  charm  of  surprise  in  it.  I  do  not  doubt 
that  George  will  be  a  very  distinguished  clergy- 
man." 

Mr.  Carr  Vipoxt.  "We  want  one — the 
House  wants  a  very  distinguished  clergyman ; 
we  have  none  at  this  moment — not  a  bishop — 
not  even  a  dean ;  all  mere  parish  parsons,  and 
among  them  not  one  we  could  push.  Very  odd, 
with  more  than  forty  livings  too.  But  the  Vi- 
ponts  seldom  take  to  the  Church  kindly — George 
must  be  pushed.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  we  want  a  bishop  :  a  bishop  would  be  use- 
ful in  the  present  crisis.  (Looking  round  the 
rooms  proudly,  and  softening  his  voice.)"  A  nu- 
merous gathering,  Morley !  This  demonstration 
will  strike  teiTor  in  Downing  Street — eh !  The 
old  House  stands  firm — never  Avas  a  family  so 
united;  all  here,  I  think — that  is,  all  worth 
naming — all,  except  Sir  James,  whom  Montfort 
chooses  to  dislike,  and  George — and  George 
comes  to-moiTow." 

Colonel  Morley.  "You  forget  the  most 
eminent  of  all  our  connections — the  one  who 
could  indeed  strike  terror  into  Downing  Street, 
were  his  voice  to  be  heard  again !" 

Carr  Vipont.  "  Whom  do  j-ou  mean  ?  Ah, 
I  know ! — Guy  Darrell.  His  wife  v>as  a  Vipont 
— and  he  is  not  here.  But  he  has  long  since 
ceased  to  communicate  with  any  of  us — the 
only  connection  that  ever  fell  away  from  the 
house  of  Vipont — especially  in  a  crisis  like  the 
present.  Singular  man !  For  all  the  use  he  is 
to  us  he  might  as  well  be  dead !  But  he  has  a 
fine  fortune — what  will  he  do  with  it  ?" 

The  Duchess.  "IV^-  dear  lady  Montfort, 
you  have  hurt  yourself  with  that  paper-cutter." 


Lady  Montfort.  "No,  indeed.  Hush!  we 
are  disturbing  Mr.  Carr  Vipont." 

The  Duchess,  in  awe  of  Carr  Vipont,  sinks 
her  voice,  and  gabbles  on — whisperously. 

Care  Vipont  (resuming  the  subject).  "A 
very  fine  fortune — what  will  he  do  with  it  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "  I  don't  know,  but  I  had 
a  letter  from  him  some  months  ago." 

Care  Vipont.  "You  had — and  never  told 
me!" 

Colonel  Morley.  "Of  no  importance  to 
you,  my  dear  Carr.  His  letter  merely  intro- 
duced to  me  a  channing  young  fellow — a  kins- 
man of  his  own  (no  Vipont) — Lionel  Haughton, 
son  of  poor  Charlie  Haughton,  whom  you  may 
remember." 

Carr  Vipont.  "Yes,  a  handsome  scamp — 
went  to  the  dogs.  So  Darrell  takes  up  Charlie's 
son — what!  as  his  heir?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "In  his  letter  to  me  he 
anticipated  that  question  in  the  negative." 

Carr  Vipont.  "  Has  Darrell  any  nearer 
kinsmen  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "Not  that  I  know  of." 

Carr  Vipont.  "  Perhaps  he  will  select  one 
of  his  wife's  family  for  his  heir — a  Vipont;  I 
should  not  wonder." 

Colonel  Morley  (drvly).  "I  should.  But 
why  may  not  Darrell  marry  again?  I  always 
thought  he  would — I  think  so  still." 

Carr  Vipont  (glancing  toward  his  own 
daughter  Honoria).  "  Well,  a  wife  well-chosen 
might  restore  him  to  society,  and  to  us.  Pity, 
indeed,  that  so  great  an  intellect  should  be  sus- 
pended— a  voice  so  eloquent  hushed.  You  are 
right ;  in  this  crisis,  Guy  DaiTell  once  more  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  we  should  have  all  we 
require — an  orator,  a  debater!  Very  odd,  but 
at  this  moment  we  have  no  speakers — we,  the 
Viponts !" 

Colonel  Morley.  "Yourself?" 

Carr  Vipont.  "You  are  too  kind.  I  can 
speak  on  occasions  ;  but  regularly,  no.  Too 
much  drudgery — not  young  enough  to  take  to  it 
now.  So  you  think  Darrell  will  marry  again? 
A  remarkably  fine-looking  fellow  when  1  last 
saw  him :  not  old  yet ;  I  dare  say,  well-pre- 
sen-ed.  I  wish  I  had  thought  of  asking  him 
here — Montfort !"  (Lord  ^lontfort,  with  one  or 
two  male  fi-iends,  was  passing  by  toward  a  bill- 
iai'd-room,  opening  through  a  side-door  from 
the  regular  suite)— "  Momfort !  only  think,  we 
forgot  to  im4te  Guy  Darrell.  Is  it  too  late  be- 
fore our  party  breaks  up  ?" 

Lord  Montfort  (sullenly).  "  I  don't  choose 
Guy  Darrell  to  be  invited  to  my  house." 

Carr  Vipont  was  literally  stunned  by  a  reply 
so  contumacious.  Lord  Montfort  demur  at 
what  Carr  Vipont  suggested !  He  could  not  be- 
lieve his  senses. 

'  •  Not  choose,  my  dear  Montfort !  yon  are  jok- 
ing. A  monstrous  clever  fellow,  Guy  Darrell, 
and  at  this  crisis — " 

"  I  hate  clever  fellows — no  such  bores !"  said 
Lord  Montfort,  breaking  from  the  caressing 
clas])  of  Carr  Vipont,  and  stalking  away. 

"Spare  your  regrets,  my.  dear  Can-,"  said 
Colonel  ^lorley.  ■•Darrell  is  not  in  England 
— I  rather  believe  he  is  in  Verona."  Therewith 
the  Colonel  sauntered  toward  the  group  gathered 
round  the  piano.  A  little  time  afterward  Lady 
Montfort  escaped  from  the  Duchess,  and,  min- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


139 


gling  courteously  with  her  livcher  guests,  found 
herself  close  to  Colonel  Morley.  "Will  you 
give  me  my  revenge  at  chess?"  slie  asked,  with 
Ler  rare  smile.  The  Colonel  was  charmed. 
As  they  sat  down  and  ranged  their  men,  Lady 
Montfort  remarked,  carelessly — 

"  I  overheard  you  say  you  had  lately  received 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Darrell.  Does  he  write  as  if 
well — cheerful  ?  You  remember  that  I  was 
much  with  his  daughter,  mucli  in  his  house, 
when  I  was  a  child.  He  was  ever  most  kind  to 
me."     Lady  Montfort's  voice  here  faltered. 

"He  writes  with  no  reference  to  himself,  his 
health  or  his  spirits.  But  his  young  kinsman 
described  him  to  me  as  in  good  health — won- 
derfully young-looking  for  his  years.  But 
cheerful — no !  Darrell  and  I  entered  the  world 
together ;  we  were  friends  as  much  as  a  man  so 
busy  and  so  eminent  as  he  could  be  friends  with 
a  man  like  myself — indolent  by  habit,  and  ob- 
scure out  of  ^layfair.  I  know  his  nature ;  we 
botli  know  something  of  his  family  sorrows.  lie 
can  not  be  happy!  Impossible! — alone — child- 
less— secluded.  Poor  Darrell,  abroad  now ;  in 
Verona,  too ! — the  dullest  i)lace !  in  mourning 
still  foi-  Ivomeo  and  Juliet! — 'Tis  your  turn  to 
move.  In  his  letter  Darrell  talked  of  going  on 
to  Greece,  Asia — jienetrating  into  the  depths  of 
Africa — the  wildest  schemes !  Dear  County 
Guy,  as  we  called  him  at  Eton ! — what  a  career 
his  might  have  been  I  Don't  let  us  talk  of  him, 
it  makes  me  mournful.  Like  Goethe,  I  avoid 
painful  subjects  upon  princiiile." 

Lady  Moktfokt.  "No — we  will  not  talk  of 
him.  No — I  take  the  Queen's  pawn.  Ko,  we 
will  not  talk  of  him! — no!" 

The  game  proceeded ;  the  Colonel  was  with- 
in three  moves  of  checkmating  his  adversary. 
Forgetting  the  resolution  come  to,  he  said,  as 
she  paused,  and  seemed  despondently  medita- 
ting a  hopeless  defense — 

"  Pray,  my  fiiir  cousin,  what  makes  Montfort 
dislike  my  old  friend  Darrell  ?" 

"Dislike!  Does  he?  I  don't  know.  Van- 
quished again.  Colonel  Morley!"  She  rose; 
and,  as  he  restored  the  chessmen  to  their  box, 
she  leaned  thoughtfully  over  the  table. 

"  This  young  kinsman — will  he  not  be  a  com- 
fort to  Mi-.  Darrell?" 

"  He  would  be  a  comfort  and  a  pride  to  a  fa- 
ther; but  to  Darrell,  so  distant  a  kinsman — 
comfort  I — why  and  how  ?  Darrell  \\-ill  provide 
for  him,  that  is  all.  A  very  gentlemanlike 
young  man — gone  to  Paris  by  my  advice — wants 
polish  and  knowledge  of  life.  When  he  comes 
back  he  must  enter  society ;  1  have  put  his  name 
up  at  Wiiite's  ;  irtay  I  introduce  him  to  you?" 

Lady  Montfort  hesitated,  and,  after  a  pause, 
said,  almost  rudely,  "No." 

She  left  the  Colonel,  slightly  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  and  passed  into  the  billiard-room 
with  a  quick  step.  Some  ladies  were  already 
there,  looking  at  the  players.  Lord  Montfort 
was  chalking  his  cue.  Lady  Montfort  walked 
straight  up  to  him  ;  her  color  was  heightened  ; 
her  lip  was  quivering  ;  she  placed  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  wifelikc  boldness.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  had  come  there  to  seek  him  from  an 
impulse  of  atiection.  She  asked  with  a  hurried 
fluttering  kindness  of  voice,  "If  he  had  been 
successful?"  and  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name.      Lord  Montfort's   countenance,  before 


merely  apathetic,  now  assumed  an  expression 
of  extreme  distaste.  "  Come  to  teach  me  to 
make  a  cannon,  I  suppose!"  he  said,  UKitter- 
ingly,  and  turning  from  her,  contemplated  the 
balls  and  missed  the  cannon. 

"Bather  in  my  way.  Lady  Montfort,"  said  he 
then,  and  retiring  to  a  corner,  said  no  more. 

Lady  Montfort's  countenance  became  still 
more  flushed.  She  lingered  a  moment,  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room,  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening  was  uncommonly  animated,  gra- 
cious, fascinating.  As  she  retired  with  her  ladj 
guests  for  the  night,  she  looked  roimd,  saw  ( "ol- 
onel  Morley,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"Your  nephew  comes  here  to-morrow,"  said 
slie,  "my  old  playfellow;  inqiossible  quite  to 
forget  old  friends — good-night," 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Lcs  extremes  sc  tou client." 

The  next  day  the  gentlemen  were  dispersed 
out  of  doors — a  large  shooting  party.  Those 
who  did  not  shoot,  walked  forth  to  insjiect  the 
racing  stud  or  the  model  farm.  The  ladies  had 
taken  their  walk ;  some  were  in  their  own  rooms, 
some  in  the  reception  rooms,  at  work,  or  read- 
ing, or  listening  to  the  piano — Honoria  Carr  Vi- 
pont  again  performing.  Lady  Montfort  was  ab- 
sent; Lady  Selina  kindly  sup]ilicd  the  hostess's 
place.  Lady  Selina  was  embroidering,  with  great 
skill  and  taste,  a  pair  of  slippers  for  her  eldest 
bo)',  who  was  just  entered  at  Oxford,  having  left 
Eton  with  a  re]nitation  of  being  the  neatest  dress- 
er, and  not  the  worst  cricketer,  of  that  renown- 
ed educational  institute.  It  is  a  mistake  to  sup- 
pose that  fine  ladies  are  not  sometimes  very  fond 
mothers  and  affectionate  wives.  Lady  Selina, 
beyond  her  family  circle,  was  trivial,  nnsympa- 
thizing,  cold-hearted,  supercilious  by  tem])era- 
ment,  never  kind  but  through  policy,  artificial 
as  clock-work.  But  in  her  own  home,  to  her 
husband,  her  children.  Lady  Selina  was  a  very 
good  sort  of  woman.  Devotedly  attached  to  Can* 
Vipont,  exaggerating  his  talents,  thinking  him 
the  first  man  in  England,  careful  of  his  honor, 
zealous  for  his  interests,  soothing  in  his  cares, 
tender  in  his  ailments.  To  lier  girls  prudent 
and  watchful — to  her  boys  indulgent  and  caress- 
ing. INIinutely  attentive  to  the  education  of  the 
first,  aecording  to  her  high-bred  ideas  of  educa- 
tion— and  they  really  were  "  superior"  girls,  with 
much  instruction  and  w  ell-balanced  minds.  Less 
authoritative  with  the  last,  because  boys  being 
not  under  her  immediate  control,  her  sense  of 
responsibility  allowed  her  to  display  more  fond- 
ness and  less  dignity  in  her  intercourse  with 
them  than  with  young  ladies  who  must  learn 
from  her  example,  as  well  as  her  precepts,  the 
patrician  decorum  which  becomes  the  smooth 
result  of  impulse  restrained  and  emotion  check- 
ed. Boys  might  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  girls 
should  make  none.  Lady  Selina,  then,  was  work- 
ing the  slippers  for  her  absent  son,  her  heart  be- 
ing full  of  him  at  that  moment.  She  was  de- 
scribing his  character,  and  expatiating  on  his 
promise  to  two  or  three  attentive  listeners,  all 
interested,  as  being  themselves  of  the  Vipont 
brood,  in  the  probable  destiny  of  the  heir  to  the 
Carr  Viponts. 


140 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


"  In  short,"  said  Lady  Selina,  winding  up,  "  as 
soon  as  Reginald  is  of  age  we  sliall  get  him  into 
Parliament.  Carr  has  always  lamented  that  he 
himself  was  not  broken  into  office  early  ;  Regi- 
nald must  be.  Nothing  so  requisite  for  public 
men  as  early  training — makes  them  practical, 
and  not  too  sensitive  to  what  those  hoiTid  news- 
paper men  say.  That  was  Pitt's  great  advant- 
age. Reginald  has  ambition ;  he  should  have 
occupation  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  It  is 
an  anxious  thing  for  a  mother,  when  a  son  is 
good-looking — such  danger  of  his  being  spoiled 
by  the  women — yes.  my  dear,  it  is  a  small  foot, 
very  small — his  father's  foot." 

"If  Lord  Montfort  should  have  no  family," 
said  a  somewhat  distant  and  subaltern  Yipont, 
■whisjieringly  and  hesitating,  "  does  not  the  ti- 
tle—" 

"No,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady  Selina; 
"  no,  the  title  does  not  come  to  us.  It  is  a  mel- 
ancholy thought,  but  the  marquisate,  in  that 
case,  is  extinct.  Xo  other  heir-male  from  Gil- 
bert, the  first  Marquis.  Carr  says  there  is  even 
likely  to  be  some  dispute  about  the  earldom. 
The  Barony,  of  course,  is  safe  ;  goes  with  the 
Irish  estates,  and  most  of  the  English — and  goes 
(don't  you  know?) — to  Sir  James  Yipont,  the 
last  person  who  ought  to  have  it ;  the  quietest, 
stupidest  creature ;  not  brought  up  to  the  sort 
of  thing — a  mere  gentleman  farmer  on  a  small 
estate  in  Devonshire." 

"He  is  not  here?" 

"No.  Lord  Montfort  does  not  like  him. 
Very  natural.  Nobody  does  like  his  heir,  if  not 
his  own  child,  and  some  people  don't  even  like 
their  own  eldest  sons  !  Shocking ;  but  so  it  is. 
Montfort  is  the  kindest,  most  tractable  being 
that  ever  was,  except  where  he  takes  a  dislike. 
He  dislikes  two  or  three  people  very  much." 

"True;  how  he  did  dislike  poor  Mrs.  Lynd- 
say !"  said  one  of  the  listeners,  smiling. 

"Mrs.  Lyndsay,  yes — dear  Lady  Montfort's 
mother.  I  can't  say  I  pitied  her,  though  I  was 
sorry  for  Lady  Montfort.  How  Mrs.  Lyndsay 
ever  took  in  Montfort  for  Caroline  I  can't  con- 
ceive I  How  she  had  the  face  to  think  of  it ! 
He,  a  mere  youth  at  the  time !  Kept  secret 
from  all  his  family — even  from  his  grandmother 
— the  darkest  transaction.  I  don't  wonder  that 
he  never  forgave  it." 

First  Listener.  "  Caroline  has  beauty  enough 
to—" 

Lady  Selina  (interrupting).  "  Beauty,  of 
course — no  one  can  deny  that.  But  not  at  all 
suited  to  such  a  position ;  not  brought  up  to  the 
sort  of  thing.  Poor  Montfort  I  he  should  have 
married  a  different  kind  of  woman  altogether — 
a  woman  like  his  grandmother,  the  last  Lady 
Montfort.  Caroline  does  nothing  for  the  House 
—^nothing — has  not  even  a  child — most  unfor- 
tunate affair." 

Second  Listener.  "  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was  very 
poor,  was  not  she  ?  Caroline,  I  suppose,  had  no 
opportunity  of  forming  those  tastes  and  habits 
which  are  necessaiy  for — for — " 

Lady  Selina  (helping  the  listener).  "For 
such  a  position  and  such  a  fortune.  You  are 
quite  right,  my  dear.  People  brought  up  in  one 
way  can  not  accommodate  themselves  to  anoth- 
er; and  it  is  odd,  but  I  have  observed  that  peo- 
ple brought  up  poor  can  accommodate  them- 
selves less  to  being  very  rich  than  people  brought 


up  rich  to  accommodate  themselves  to  being 
very  poor.  As  Carr  says,  in  his  pointed  way, 
'it  is  easier  to  stoop  than  to  climb.'  Yes  ;  Mrs. 
Lyndsay  was,  you  know,  a  daughter  of  Seymour 
Yipont,  who  was  for  so  many  years  in  the  Ad- 
ministration, with  a  fair  income  from  his  salary, 
and  nothing  out  of  it.  She  mairied  one  of  the 
Scotch  Lyndsays — good  family,  of  course — with 
a  very  moderate  property.  She  was  left  a  wid- 
ow young,  with  an  only  child,  Caroline.  Came 
to  town,  with  a  small  jointure.  The  late  Lady 
IMontfort  was  ver}^  kind  to  her.  So  were  we  all 
— took  her  up — pretty  woman — pretty  manners 
— worldly — oh,  very !  I  don't  like  worldly  peo- 
ple. Well,  but  all  of  a  sudden,  a  dreadful  thing 
happened.  The  heir-at-law  disputed  tlie  joint- 
ure, denied  that  Lyndsay  had  any  right  to  make 
settlements  on  the  Scotch  property — very  com- 
plicated business.  But,  luckily  for  her,  Yi- 
pont Crooke's  daughter,  her  cousin  and  inti- 
mate friend,  had  married  Dan-ell — the  famous 
Darrell — who  was  then  at  the  bar.  It  is  very 
useful  to  have  cousins  maiTied  to  clever  people. 
He  was  interested  in  her  case,  took  it  up.  I  be- 
lieve it  did  not  come  on  in  the  courts  in  which 
Darrell  practiced.  But  he  arranged  all  the  ev- 
idence, inspected  the  briefs,  spent  a  great  deal 
of  his  own  money  in  getting  up  the  case — and, 
in  fact,  he  gained  her  cause,  though  he  could 
not  be  her  counsel.  People  did  say  that  she 
was  so  grateful  that  after  his  wife's  death  she 
had  set  her  heart  on  becoming  ^Irs.  Darrell  the 
second.  But  Darrell  was  then  quite  wrapped  up 
in  politics — the  last  man  to  fall  in  love — and 
only  looked  bored  when  women  fell  in  love  with 
him,  which  a  good  many  did.  Grand-looking 
creature,  my  dear,  and  quite  the  rage  for  a  year 
or  two.  However,  ^Irs.  L}'ndsay  all  of  a  sud- 
den went  off  to  Paris,  and  there  Montfort  saw 
Caroline,  and  was  caught.  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  no 
doubt,  calculated  on  living  with  her  daughter, 
having  the  run  of  Montfort  House  in  town  and 
Montfort  Court  in  the  country.  But  Montfort 
is  deeper  than  people  think  for.  No,  he  never 
forgave  her.  She  was  never  asked  here — took 
it  to  heart,  went  to  Rome,  and  died." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  George 
Morley,  now  the  Rev.  George  Morley,  entered, 
just  arrived  to  join  his  cousins. 

Some  knew  him,  some  did  not.  Lady  Selina, 
who  made  it  a  point  to  know  all  the  cousins, 
rose  graciously,  put  aside  the  slippers,  and  gave 
him  two  fingers.  She  was  astonished  to  find 
him  not  nearly  so  shy  as  he  used  to  be — won- 
derfully improved;  at  his  ease,  cheerful,  ani- 
mated. Tlie  man  now  was  in  his  right  place, 
and  following  hope  on  the  bent  of  inclination. 
Few  men  are  shy  when  in  their  right  places. 
He  asked  after  Lady  Montfort.  She  was  in  her 
own  small  sitting-room,  writing  letters — letters 
that  Carr  Yipont  had  entreated  her  to  write — 
correspondence  useful  to  the  House  of  Yipont. 
Before  long,  however,  a  servant  entered  to  say 
that  Lady  Montfort  would  be  very  happy  to  see 
Mr.  Morley.  George  followed  the  servant  into 
that  unpretending  sitting-room,  with  its  simple 
chintzes  and  quiet  book-shelves  —  room  that 
would  not  have  been  too  fine  for  a  cottage. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Ul 


CHAI^TER  X.  I 

In  every  life,  go  it  fast,  go  it  slow,  there  are  critical  ; 
pausing  places.  ^Vhen  the  journey  is  renewed,  the  j 
face  of  the  country  is  chimged.  j 

How  well  she  suited  that  simple  room — her-  : 
self  so  simply  dressed — her  marvelous  beauty 
so  extiuisitely  subdued.     She  looked  at  home 
there,  as  if  all  of  home  that  the  house  could 
give  wore  there  collected. 

She  had  finished  and  sealed  the  momentous 
letters,  and  had  conio.  with  a  sense  of  relief, 
from  tiie  table  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
on  which  those  letters,  ceremonious  and  con- 
ventional, had  been  written — come  to  the  win- 
dow, which,  thousjh  mid-winter,  was  open,  and 
the  red-breast,  with  whom  slie  had  made  friends, 
hopped  boldly  almost  within  reach,  looking;  at 
her  with  bright  eyes,  and  head  curiously  aslant. 
By  the  window  a  single  chair  and  a  small  read- 
ing-desk, with  the  book  lying  open.  The  short 
day  was  not  far  from  its  close,  but  there  was 
ample  light  still  in  the  skies,  and  a  serene  if 
chilly  stillness  in  the  air  without. 
'  Though  expecting  the  relation  she  had  just 
summoned  to  her  )>resence,  I  fear  she  had  half 
forgotten  him.  !She  was  standing  by  the  win- 
dow deep  in  reverie  as  he  entered,  so  deep  tliat 
she  started  when  his  voice  struck  her  ear  and 
he  stood  before  her.  8he  recovered  herself 
quickly,  however,  and  said  with  even  more  than 
her  ordinary  kindliness  of  tone  and  manner  to- 
ward the  scholar — "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  and  con- 
gratulate you." 

"  And  i  so  glad  to  receive  your  congratula- 
tions," answered  the  scholar,  in  smooth,  slow 
voice,  without  a  stutter. 

"But,  George,  how  is  this?"  asked  Lady 
Montfort.  "Bring  that  chair,  sit  down  here, 
and  tell  me  all  about  it.  You  wrote  me  word 
you  were  cured,  at  least  sufficiently  to  remove 
your  noble  scruples.  You  did  not  say  how. 
Your  uncle  tells  me  by  patient  will  and  resolute 
practice." 

"  Under  good  guidance.  But  I  am  going  to 
confide  to  you  a  secret,  if  you  will  promise  to 
keep  it." 

"Oh,  you  may  trust  me;  I  have  no  female 
friends." 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  spoke  at  once  of 
the  lessons  he  had  received  from  the  basket- 
maker. 

"  I  have  his  permission,"  he  said,  in  conclu- 
sion, "to  confide  the  service  he  rendered  me, 
the  intimacy  that  has  sprung  up  between  us, 
but  to  you  alone — not  a  word  to  your  guests. 
When  you  have  once  seen  him,  you  will  under- 
stand why  an  eccentric  man,  who  has  known 
better  days,  would  shrink  from  the  impertinent 
curiosity  of  idle  customers.  Contented  with 
liis  humble  livelihood,  he  asks  but  liberty  and 
repose." 

"That  I  already  comprehend,"  said  Lady 
Montfort,  half  sighing,  iialf  smiling.  "But  my 
curiosity  shall  not  molest  him,  and  when  I  visit 
•the  village,  I  will  ]iass  by  iiis  cottage." 

"  Nay,  my  dear  Lady  Montfort,  that  would  be 
to  refuse  the  favor  I  am  about  to  ask,  which  is 
that  you  would  come  with  me  to  that  very  cot- 
t^e.     It  would  so  ])Iea.se  him." 
"  Please  him — why?" 

"Because  this  poor  man  has  a  young  female 
grandchild,  and  he  is  so  anxious  that  you  should 


see  and  be  kind  to  her,  and  because,  too,  he 
seems  most  tenacious  to  remain  in  his  present 
residence.  The  cottage,  of  course,  belongs  to 
Lord  Montfort,  and  is  let  to  him  by  tlic  bailiff', 
and  if  you  deign  to  feel  interest  in  him,  his 
tenure  is  safe." 

Lady  Montfort  looked  down,  and  colored. 
She  thought,  perhajts,  how  fal.<e  a  security  her 
protection,  and  how  slight  an  influence  her  in- 
terest would  be,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  George 
went  on  ;  and  so  eloquently  and  so  toucliiiigly 
did  he  describe  both  grandsire  and  grandchild, 
so  skillfully  did  he  intimate  the  mystery  which 
hung  over  them,  that  Lady  Montfort  became 
much  moved  by  his  narrative,  and  willingly 
promised  to  accompany  him  across  the  ])ark  to 
tlic  basket-maker's  cottage  the  first  oi)porltinity. 
But  when  one  has  sixty  guests  in  one's  house, 
one  has  to  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  escape 
from  them  unremarked.  And  the  opjiortuuity, 
in  fact,  did  not  come  for  many  days — not  till 
the  party  broke  uj) — save  one  or  two  dowager 
she-cousins  who  "  gave  no  trouble,"  and  one  or 
two  bachelor  hc-cousins  whom  my  lord  retained 
to  consummate  the  slaughter  of  pheasants,  and 
]day  at  billiards  in  the  dreary  intervals  between 
sunset  and  dinner — dinner  and  bedtime. 

Then  one  cheerful  frosty  noon  George  Morley 
and  his  fair  cousin  walked  boldly,  en  evidence, 
before  the  prying  ghostly  windows,  across  the 
broad  gravel-walks — gained  the  secluded  shrub- 
bery, the  solitary  deeps  of  parkland — skirted  the 
wide  sheet  of  water — and  passing  through  a 
private  wicket  in  the  paling,  suddenly  came 
upon  the  ]natch  of  osier-ground  and  humble 
garden,  which  were  backed  by  the  basket-mak- 
er's cottage. 

As  they  entered  those  lowly  precincts  a  child's 
laugh  was  borne  to  their  cars — a  child's  silveiy, 
musical,  mirthful  laugh  ;  it  was  long  since  the 
great  lady  had  heard  a  laugh  like  that — a  happy 
child's  natural  laugh.  She  paused  and  listen- 
ed with  a  strange  pleasure.  "Yes,"  whispered 
George  Morley,  "stojj — and  hush!  there  they 
are." 

Waife  was  seated  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,  ma- 
terials for  his  handicraft  lying  beside,  neglected. 
Sophy  was  standing  before  him — he,  raising  his 
finger  as  in  reproof,  and  striving  hard  to  frown. 
As  the  intruders  listened,  they  overlicard  that 
he  was  striving  to  teach  her  the  rudiments  of 
French  dialogue,  and  she  was  laughing  merrily 
at  her  own  blunders  and  at  the  solemn  affecta- 
tion of  the  shocked  schoolmaster.  Lady  INIont- 
fort  noted  with  no  unnatural  surprise  the  purity 
of  idiom  and  of  accent  with  which  this  singular 
basket-maker  was  unconsciously  displaying  his 
perfect  knowledge  of  a  language  which  the  best 
educated  English  gentleman  of  that  generation, 
nay,  even  of  this,  rarely  speaks  with  accuracy 
and  elegance.  But  her  attention  was  diverted 
immediately  from  the  teacher  to  the  face  of  the 
sweet  pupil.  Women  have  a  quick  appreciation 
of  beauty  in  their  own  sex — and  wo!i:en,  who 
are  themselves  beautiful,  not  the  least.  In-e- 
sistibly  Lady  Montfort  felt  attracted  towiird  that 
innocent  countenance,  so  lively  in  its  mirth,  and 
yet  so  softly  gay.  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  hitherto 
lain  perdu,  watching  the  movements  of  a  thrush 
amidst  a  holly-bush,  now  started  up  with  a  hark. 
Waife  rose— Sophy  turned  half  in  flight.  The 
visitors  approached. 


142 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Here,  slowly,  lingeringly,  let  fall  the  curtain. 
In  the  frank  license  of  narrative,  years  will  have 
rolled  away  ere  the  curtain  rise  again.  Events 
that  may  influence  a  life  often  date  from  mo- 
ments the  most  serene,  from  things  that  appear 
as  trivial  and  unnoticeable  as  the  gi'eat  lady's 
visit  to  the  basket-maker's  cottage.  Which  of 
those  lives  will  that  visit  influence  hereafter — 
the  woman's,  the  child's,  the  vagrant's?  Whose  ? 
Probably  little  that  passes  now  would  aid  con- 
jecture, or  be  a  \isible  link  in  the  chain  of  des- 
tiny. A  few  desultory  questions — a  few  guarded 
answers — a  look  or  so,  a  musical  syllable  or  two 
exchanged  between  the  lady  and  the  child — a 
basket  bought,  or  a  promise  to  call  again.  No- 
thing worth  the  telling.  Be  it  then  untold. 
View  only  the  scene  itself  as  the  curtain  drops 
reluctantly.  The  rustic  cottage,  its  garden-door 
open,  and  open  its  old-fashioned  lattice  case- 
ments. You  can  see  how  neat  and  cleanly,  how 
eloquent  of  healthful  poverty,  how  remote  from 
squalid  penury,  the  whitewashed  walls,  the 
homely  furniture  within.  Creepers  lately  trained 
around  the  door-waj^.  Christmas  holly,  with 
berries  red  against  tlie  window  panes  ;  the  bee- 
hive yonder ;  a  starling,  too,  outside  the  thresh- 
old, in  its  wicker  cage.  In  the  background 
(all  the  I'est  of  tlie  neighboring  hamlet  out  of 
sight),  the  church-spire  tapering  away  into  the 
clear  blue  wintry  sky.  All  has  an  air  of  re- 
pose— of  safety.  Close  beside  you  is  the  Pres- 
ence of  HOME — that  ineffable,  sheltering,  loving 
Presence  —  which,  amidst  solitude,  murmurs 
"not  solitary;"  a  Presence  unvouchsafed  to  the 
great  lady  in  the  palace  she  has  left.  And  the 
lady  herself  ?  She  is  resting  on  the  rude  gnarled 
root-stump  from  which  the  vagrant  had  risen  ; 
she  has  drawn  Sophy  toward  her ;  she  has  taken 
the  child's  hand;  she  is  speaking  now  —  now 
listening  ;  and  on  her  face  kindness  looks  like 
happiness.  Perhaps  she  is  happy  at  that  mo- 
ment. And  Waife  ?  he  is  turning  aside  his 
weather-beaten,  mobile  countenance,  with  his 
hand  anxiously  trembling  upon  the  young  schol- 


ar's arm.  The  scholar  whispers,  "Are  you 
satisfied  with  me  ?"  and  Waife  answers  in  a 
voice  as  low  but  more  broken,  "  God  reward 
you !  Oh,  joy ! — if  my  pretty  one  has  found  at 
last  a  woman  friend  !"  Poor  vagabond,  he  has 
now  a  calm  asylum — a  fixed  humble  livelihood 
— more  than  that,  he  has  just  achieved  an  ob- 
ject fondly  cherished.  His  past  life  —  alas ! 
what  has  he  done  with  it?  His  actual  life — 
broken  fragment  though  it  be — is  at  rest  now. 
But  still  the  everlasting  question  —  mocking, 
terrible  question — with  its  phrasing  of  farce  and 
its  enigmas  of  tragical  sense — "What  avill  he 
DO  ■WITH  IT  ?"  Do  with  what  ?  The  all  that 
remains  to  him — the  all  he  holds !  —  the  all 
which  man  himself,  betwixt  free-will  and  pre- 
deci-ee  is  permitted  to  do.  Ask  not  the  vagrant 
alone — ask  each  of  the  four  there  assembled  on 
that  flying  bridge  called  the  INIoment.  Time 
before  thee — what  Milt  thou  do  with  it?  Ask 
thyself: — ask  the  wisest!  Out  of  effort  to  an- 
swer that  question,  what  dream-schools  have 
risen,  never  wholly  to  perish  !  The  science  of 
seers  on  the  Chaldee's  Pur-Tor,  or  in  the  rock- 
caves  of  Delphi,  gasped  after  and  grasped  at  by 
horn-handed  mechanics  to-day  in  their  lanes 
and  alleys.  To  the  heart  of  the  populace  sink 
down  the  blurred  relics  of  what  once  was  the 
lore  of  the  secretest  sages — hieroglyphical  tat- 
ters which  the  credulous  -N-ulgai  attempt  to  in- 
tei-])ret — "What  avill  he  no  with  it?"  Ask 
Merle  and  his  Crystal!  But  the  curtain  de- 
scends !  Yet  a  moment,  there  they  are — age 
and  childhood — poverty,  wealth,  station,  vaga- 
bondage ;  the  preacher's  sacred  learning  and 
august  ambition ;  fancies  of  dawning  reason ; 
— hopes  of  intellect  matured; — memories  of 
existence  wrecked ;  household  sorrows — untold 
regrets — elegy  and  epic  in  low,  close,  human 
sighs,  to  which  Poetry  never  yet  gave  voice — 
all  for  the  moment  personified  there  before 
you  —  a  glimpse  for  the  guess  —  no  more. 
Lower  and  lower  falls  the  curtain!  All  is 
blank! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


143 


BOOK    VI. 


CHAPTER  I.  I  forethought,  and  fair  opportunity  for  such  revi- 

I  sions,  as  an  architect,  having  prepared  all  his 
Being  an  Address  to  the  Kcader.  |  plans,  must  still  admit  to  his  building,  should 

Seeing  the  length  to  which  this  "Work  has  ^  dithculties,  not  foreseen,  sharpen  the  invention 
already  run,  and  the  space  it  must  yet  occujiy  to  render  each  variation  in  detail  an  improve- 
in  the  columns  of  Maga,  it  is  but  fair  to  the  j  ment  consistent  to  the  original  design. 
Reader  to  correct  any  inconsiderate  notion  that  Secondly. — May  the  Reader — accepting  this 
the  Author  does  not  know  "what  he  will  do  |  profession  of  the  principles  by  which  is  con- 
with  it."  Learn,  then,  O  friendly  reader,  that  structed  the  history  that  invites  his  attention, 
no  matter  the  number  of  months  through  which  ;  and  receiving  now  the  assurance  that  the  Work 
it  mav  glide  its  way  to  thine  eyes — learn  that  :  is  actually  passed  out  of  the  Author's  hands,  is 
\vith  the  single  exception  of  tlie  chapter  now  j  as  much  a  thing  done  and  settled  as  any  book 
respectfully  addressed  to  thee,  tue  wnoLE  of  ;  composed  by  him  twenty  years  ago — banisk  all 
THIS  WORK  HAS  BEEN  LONG  SINCE  COMPLETED  ,  fear  Icst  each  Is  umbcr  should  depend  for  its  av- 
AND  TRANSFERRED  FROJi  THE  DESK  OF  THE  Ac-  I  erage  merit  on  accidental  circumstances — such 
THOR  TO  THE  HANDS  OF  THE  Plblisher.  '■  as  impatient  haste,  or  varying  humor,  or  capri- 

On  the  22d  of  January  last — let  the  day  be  ;  cious  health,  or  the  demand  of  more  absorbing 
marked  with  a  white  stone  I — the  Author's  la-  and  practical  pursuits,  in  v.liich,  during  a  con- 
bors  were  brought  to  a  close,  and  "What  he  j  sidcrable  portion  of  the  year,  it  has  long  been 
will  do  with  it"  is  no  longer  a  secret — at  least  to  •  the  Author's  lot  to  be  actively  engaged.  Certes, 
the  Editor  of  Maga.  I  albeit  in  the  course  of  his  life  he  has  got  through 

May  this  information  establish,  throughout  ■  a  reasonable  degree  of  labor,  and  has  habitually 
the  rest  of  the  journey  to  be  traveled  together,  relied  on  application  to  supply  his  defects  in 
that  tacit  confidence  between  Author  and  Read-  I  genius ;  yet  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time  is  the 
crwiiich  is  so  important  to  mutual  satisfaction  I  |  practical  rule  of  those  by  whom,  in  the  course 
Firstly. — The  Reader  may  thus  have  the  com-  of  time,  many  things  have  been  accomplished, 
plaisance  to  look  at  each  installment  as  the  com-  j  And  accordingly  a  work,  even  so  trivial  as  this 
ponent  portion  of  a  completed  whole ;  corapre-  i  may  be  deemed,  is  not  composed  in  the  turmoil 
bending  that  it  can  not  be  within  the  scope  of  |  of  metropolitan  life,  nor  when  other  occupations 
the  Author's  design  to  aim  at  a  separate  effect  |  demand  attention,  but  in  the  quiet  leisure  of 
for  each  separate  Number;  but  rather  to  carry  ;  rural  shades,  and  in  those  portions  of  the  year 
on  through  each  Number  the  effect  which  he  '  which  fellow-workmen  devote  to  relaxation  and 
deems  most  appropriate  to  his  composition  when  ,  amusement.  For  even  in  holidays,  something 
regarded  as  a  whole.  And  here  may  it  be  per-  ;  of  a  holiday-task  adds  a  zest  to  the  hours  of 
mitted  to  dispel  an  erroneous  idea  which,  to    ease. 

judge  by  current  criticism,  appears  to  be  suffi-  j  Lastly. — Since  this  snn-ey  of  our  modem 
ciemlv  prevalent  to  justify  the  egotism  of  com-  i  world  requires  a  large  and  a  crowded  canvas, 
ment."  It  seems  to  be  supposed  that,  because  I  and  would  be  incomplete  did  it  not  intimate 
this  work  is  published  from  month  to  month  in  '  those  points  of  contact  in  which  the  private 
successive  installments,  therefore  it  is  %^Titten  ;  touches  the  public  life  of  Social  Man,  so  it  is 
from  month  to  month,  as  a  newspaper  article  ]  well  that  the  Reader  should  fully  understand 
mav  be"  dashed  off  from  dav  to  day.  Such  a  that  all  reference  to  such  grand  events,  as  polit- 
sup'position  is  adverse  to  all  the  principles  by  |  ical  "crises"  and  changes  of  Government,  were 
which  works  that  necessitate  integrity  of  plan,  I  written  many  months  ago,  and  have  no  refer- 
and  a  certain  harmony  of  proportion,  are  con-  |  ence  whatever  to  the  actual  occurrences  of  the 
structed  ;  more  especially  those  works  which  '  passing  day.  Holding  it,  indeed,  a  golden  max- 
aim  at  artistic  representations  of  human  life ;  im  that  practical  politics  and  ideal  art  should 
for,  in  human  life,  we  must  presume  that  no-  be  kept  wholly  distinct  from  each  other,  and 
thing  is  left  to  chance,  and  chance  must  be  no  seeking  in  this  Narrative  to  write  that  which 
less  rigidly  banished  from  the  art  by  which  hu-  may  be  read  with  unembittered  and  impartial 
man  life  is  depicted.  That  art  admits  no  hap-  pleasure  by  all  classes  and  all  parties—nay,  per- 
hazard  chapters,  no  uncertainty  as  to  the  con-  |  chance,  in  years  to  come,  by  the  children  of 
sequences  that  must  ensue  from  the  incidents  it !  those  whom  he  now  addresses — the  Author 
decides  on  selecting.  Would  the  artist,  on  aft-  '  deems  it  indispensable  to  such  ambition  to  pre- 
er-thought,  alter  a  consequence,  he  must  recon-  serve  the  neutral  ground  of  imaginative  creation, 
sider  the  whole  chain-work  of  incident  which  not  only  free  from  those  personal  portraitures 
led  to  one  inevitable  result,  and  which  would  be  which  are  fatal  to  comprehensive  and  typical  de- 
whoUy  defective  if  it  could  be  made  to  lead  to  ;  lineations  of  character,  but  from  all  intentional 
another.  Hence,  a  work  of  this  kind  can  not  be  appeals  to  an  interest  which  can  be  but  moment- 
written  currente  calamo.  from  month  to  month ;  ar}-,  if  given  to  subjects  that  best  befit  the  lead- 
the  entire  design  must  be  broadly  set  forth  be-  ing  articles  of  political  journals.  His  realm,  if 
fore  the  first  page  goes  to  press ;  and  large  sec-  \  it  hope  to  endure,  is  in  the  conditions,  the  hu- 
tions  of  the  whole  must  be  always  completed  in  j  mors,  the  passions  by  which  one  general  phase 
advance,  in  order  to  allow  time  for  deliberate  1  of  society  stands  forth  in  the  broad  light  of  our 


Hi 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


commoa  human  nature,  never  to  be  cast  aside, 
as  obsolete  and  out  of  fashion,  "  into  the  portion 
of  weeds  and  worn-out  faces." 

Reader!  this  exordium  is  intended,  by  way 
of  preface  to  that  more  important  division  of 
this  work,  in  wliich  the  one-half  the  circle 
rounds  itself  slowly  on  to  complete  the  whole. 
Forgive  the  exordium  ;  for,  rightly  considered, 
it  is  but  an  act  of  deference  to  thee.  Didst  thou 
ever  reflect,  O  Reader !  on  what  thou  art  to  an 
Author?  Art  thou  aware  of  the  character  of 
dignity  and  power  with  which  he  invests  thee? 
To  thee  the  Author  is  but  an  unit  in  the  great 
sum  of  intellectual  existence.  To  the  Author, 
thou,  0  Reader  I  art  the  collective  representa- 
tive of  a  multifarious  abiding  audience.  To 
thee  the  Author  is  but  the  machine,  more  or 
less  defective,  that  throws  oft'  a  kind  of  work 
usually  so  ephemeral  that  seldom  wilt  thou  even 
pause  to  examine  why  it  please  or  displease,  for 
a  day,  the  taste  tiiat  may  change  with  the  mor- 
row. But  to  him,  the  Author,  thou  art,  O  Read- 
er! a  confidant  and  a  friend,  often  nearer  and 
dearer  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  All 
other  friends  are  mortal  as  himself;  they  can 
but  survive  for  a  few  years  the  dust  he  must 
yield  to  the  grave.  But  there,  in  his  eye,  aloof 
and  aloft  forever,  stands  the  Reader,  more  and 
more  his  friend  as  Time  rolls  on.  'Tis  to  thee 
that  he  leaves  his  grandest  human  bequest,  his 
memory  and  his  name.  If  secretly  he  deem 
himself  not  appreciated  in  his  own  generation, 
he  hugs  the  belief,  often  chimerical  and  vain, 
but  ever  sweet  and  consoling,  that  in  some  gen- 
eration afar  awaits  the  Reader  destined  at  last 
to  do  him  justice.  Wit4i  thee,  the  Author  is,  of 
all  men,  he  to  whom  old  age  comes  the  soonest. 
How  quickly  thou  hastenest  to  say,  "Not  what 
he  wa5  I  Vigor  is  waning — invention  is  flagging 
— past  is  his  day — push  him  aside,  and  make 
room  for  the  Fresh  and  the  New."  But  the  Au- 
thor never  admits  that  old  age  can  fall  on  the 
Reader.  The  Reader  to  him  is  a  being  in  whom 
youth  is  renewed  through  all  cycles.  Leaning 
on  his  crutch,  the  Author  still  walks  by  the  side 
of  that  friendly  Shadow  as  he  walked  on  sum- 
mer eves,  with  a  school-friend  of  boyhood — 
talking  of  the  future  with  artless,  hopeful  lips  I 
Dreams  he  that  a  day  may  come  when  he  will 
have  no  Reader!  O  school-boy  !  dost  thou  ever 
dream  that  a  day  may  come  when  thou  wilt 
have  no  friend? 


CHAPTER  II. 


Etchings  of  Hyde  Park  in  tlie  month  of  June,  which,  if 
this  Histoiy  escape  those  villains  the  trunk-makers, 
may  be  of  inestimable  value  to  unborn  antiquarians. 
— Characters,  long  absent,  reappear  and  give  some  ac- 
count of  themselves. 

Five  years  have  passed  away  since  this  His- 
tory opened.  It  is  the  month  of  June,  once 
more — June,  which  clothes  our  London  in  all 
its  glory  ;  fills  its  languid  ball-rooms  with  living 
flowers,  and  its  stony  causeways  with  human 
butterflies.  It  is  about  the  hour  of  6  p.m.  The 
lounge  in  Hyde  Park  is  crowded ;  along  the 
road  that  skirts  the  Serpentine  crawl  the  car- 
riages one  after  the  other;  congregate,  by  the 
rails,Hhe  lazy  lookers-on — lazy  in  attitude,  but 
with  active  eyes,  and  tongues  sharpened  on  the 


whetstone  of  scandal;  the  Scaligers  of  Club 
windows  airing  their  vocabulary  in  the  Park. 
Slowly  saunter  on  foot-idlers  of  all  degrees  in 
the  hierarchy  of  London  id/esse  ;  dandies  of  es- 
tablished fame — youthful  tyros  in  their  first 
season.  Yonder,  in  the  Ride,  forms  less  inani- 
mate seem  condemned  to  active  exercise ;  young 
ladies  doing  penance  in  a  canter;  old  beaux  at 
hard  lalx)r  in  a  trot.  Sometimes,  by  a  more 
thoughtful  brow,  a  still  brisker  pace,  you  rec- 
ognize a  busy  member  of  the  Imperial  Parlia- 
ment, who,  advised  by  physicians  to  be  as  much 
on  horseback  as  possible,  snatches  an  hour  or  so 
in  the  interval  between  the  close  of  his  Com- 
mittee and  the  interest  of  the  Debate,  and  shirks 
the  opening  speech  of  a  well  known  bore. 
Among  such  truant  lawgivers  (grief  it  is  to  say 
it)  may  be  seen  that  once  model  member.  Sir 
Jasper  Stollhead.  Grim  dyspepsia  seizing  on 
him  at  last,  "relaxation  from  his  duties"  be- 
comes the  adequate  punishment  for  all  his  sins. 
Solitary  he  rides,  and,  communing  with  him- 
self, yawns  at  every  second.  Upon  chairs,  be- 
neficently located  under  the  trees  toward  the 
north  side  of  the  walk,  are  interspersed  small 
knots  and  coteries  in  repose.  There,  you  might 
see  the  Ladies  Prymme,  still  the  Ladies  Pnmme 
. — Janet  and  Wilhelmina  ;  Janet  has  gi-own  fat, 
Wilhelmina  thin.  But  thin  or  fat,  they  are  no 
less  Prymmes.  They  do  not  lack  male  attend- 
ants ;  they  are  pirls  of  high  fashion,  with  whom 
young  men  think  it  a  distinction  to  be  seen 
talking ;  of  high  principle,  too,  and  high  pre- 
tensions (unhappily  for  themselves  they  are  co- 
heiresses), by  whom  young  men  under  the  rank 
of  earls  need  not  fear  to  be  artfully  entrapped 
into  "  honorable  intentions."  They  coquet  ma- 
jestically, but  they  never  flirt ;  they  exact  devo- 
tion, but  they  do  not  ask  in  each  victim  a  sac- 
rifice on  the  horns  of  the  altar;  they  will  never 
give  their  hands  where  they  do  not  give  their 
hearts ;  and  being  ever  afraid  that  they  are 
courted  for  their  money,  they  will  never  give 
their  hearts  save  to  wooers  who  have  much 
more  money  than  themselves.  Many  young 
men  stop  to  do  passing  homage  to  the  Ladies 
Prymme ;  some  linger  to  converse — safe  young 
men,  they  are  all  younger  sons.  Farther  on. 
Lady  Frost  and  Mr.  Crampe  the  wit,  sit  amica- 
bly side  by  side,  pecking  at  each  other  with  sar- 
castic beaks  ;  occasionally  desisting,  to  fasten 
nip  and  claw  upon  that  common  enemy,  the 
passing  friend  I  The  Slowes,  a  numerous  fam- 
ily, but  taciturn,  sit  by  themselves — bowed  to 
much  ;  accosted  rarely. 

Xote  that  man  of  good  presence,  somewhere 
about  thirty,  or  a  year  or  tn'o  more,  who,  rec- 
ognized by  most  of  the  loungers,  seems  not  at 
home  in  the  lounge.  He  has  passed  by  the  va- 
rious coteries  just  described,  made  his  obeisance 
to  the  Ladies  Prymme,  received  an  icy  epigram 
from  Lady  Frost,  and  a  laconic  sneer  from  Mr. 
Crampe,  and  exchanged  silent  bows  with  seven 
silent  Slowes.  He  has  wandered  on,  looking 
high  in  the  air,  but  still  looking  for  some  one, 
not  in  the  air,  and,  evidently  disappointed  in 
his  search,  comes  to  a  full  stop  at  length,  takes 
oft'  his  hat,  wipes  his  brow,  utters  a  petulant 
•'Prr — r — pshwl"  and  seeing,  a  little  in  the 
background,  the  chairless  shade  of  a  thin,  ema- 
ciated, dusty  tree,  thither  he  retires,  and  seats 
himself  with  as  httle  care  whether  there  to  seat 


WHAT  AVILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ?     . 


U5 


himself  be  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place,  as 
if  in  the  honey-suckle  arbor  of  a  village  inn. 
"It  scnes  me"  right,"  said  he,  to  himself,  "a 
precocious  villain  bursts  in  upon  me,  breaks  nij 
day,  makes  an  appointment  to  meet  here,  in 
these  very  walks,  ten  minutes  before  six ;  de- 
coys me  with  the  promise  of  a  dinner  at  Putney 
— ^room  looking  on  the  river,  and  fried  Hounders. 
I  have   the   credulity  to  yield ;  I  derange  my 


would  be  a  great  painter.     And  in  five  short 
years  you  have  soared  high." 

"  I'ooh ;"  answered  Vance,  indifferently.  "No- 
thing is  pure  and  unadulterated  in  London  use; 
not  cream,  nor  cayenne  pepper — least  of  all, 
Fame;  mixed  up  with  the  most  deleterious  in- 
gredients. Fame !  did  you  read  the  Times'  cri- 
tique on  my  ])icturcs  in  the  present  Exhibition  ? 
Fame,  indeed!     Change  the  subject.     Nothing 


habits — I  leave  my  cool  studio;  I  put  otF  my  i  so  good  as  Hountlers.     IIo!  is  that  vour  cab? 


easy  blouse ;  I  imprison  my  free-born  throat  in 
a  cravat  invented  by  the  Thugs ;  the  dog-days 
are  at  hand,  and  I  walk  rashly  over  scorching 
pavements  in  a  black  frock-coat,  and  a  brimless 
hat ;  I  annihilate  3s.  (id.  in  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  ; 
I  arrive  at  this  haunt  of  spleen ;  I  run  the  gaunt- 
let of  Frosts,  Slowes,  and  Prymmes  ; — and  my 
traitor  fails  me!  Half  past  six — not  a  sign  of 
him !  and  the  dinner  at  Futney — fried  floun- 
ders ?  Dreams !  Patience,  hvc  minutes  more  ; 
if  then  he  conies  not — breach  for  life  between 
him  and  me  !  Ah,  voild .'  there  he  comes,  the 
laggard  !  But  how  those  fine  folks  are  catching 
at  him  I  Has  he  asked  them  also  to  dinner  at 
Putney,  and  do  they  care  for  fried  flounders  ?" 

The  soliloquist's  eye  is  on  a  young  man,  much 
younger  than  himself,  who  is  threading  the  mot- 
ley crowd  with  a  light  quick  steji,  but  is  com- 
pelled to  stop  at  each  moment  to  interchange  a 
word  of  welcome,  a  shake  of  the  hand.  Evi- 
dently he  has  already  a  large  acquaintance ; 
evidently  he  is  popular,  on  good  terms  with  the 
world  and  himself.  What  free  grace  in  his 
bearing!  what  gay  good -humor  in  his  smile! 
Powers  above !  Lady  Wilhelmina  surely  blushes 
as  she  retunis  his  bow.  He  has  passed  Lady 
Frost  unblighted;  the  Slowes  evince  emotion, 
at  least  the  female  Slowes,  as  he  shoots  by  them 
with  that  sliding  bow.  He  looks  from  side  to 
side,  with  a  rapid  glance  of  an  eye  in  which 
light  seems  all  dance  and  sparkle ;  he  sees  the 
soliloquist  under  the  meagre  tree — the  pace 
quickens,  the  lips  part,  half  laughing. 

"Don't  scold,  Vance.     I  am  late,  I  know; 

but  I  did  not  make  allowance  for  interceptions." 

"  Body  o'  me,  interceptions !     For  an  absentee 

just  arrived  in  London,  you  seem  to  have  no  lack 

of  friends." 

"Friends  made  in  Paris,  and  found  again 
here  at  every  comer,  like  jileasant  surprises. 
But  no  friend  so  welcome,  and  dear,  as  Frank 
Vance." 

"  Sensible. of  the  honor,  O  Lionello  the  mag- 
nificent. Verily  you  are  hon  Prince!  The 
Houses  of  Valois  and  of  Medici  were  always 
kind  to  artists.  But  whither  would  you  lead 
me?  Back  into  that  tread-mill ?  Thank  you, 
humbly;  no.  A  crowd  in  fine  clothes  is  of  all 
mobs  the  dullest.  I  can  look  undismayed  on 
the  many-headed  monster,  wild  and  rampant ; 
but  when  the  many-headed  monster  buys  its  hats 
in  Bond  Street,  and  has  an  eye-glass  at  each  of 
its  inquisitive  eyes,  I  confess  I  take  fright.  Be- 
sides, it  is  near  seven  o'clock ;  Putney  not  visi- 
ble, and  the  flounders  not  fried !" 

"My  cab  is  waiting  yonder;  we  must  walk  to 
it — we  can  keep  on  the  turf,  and  avoid  the 
throng.  But  tell  me  honestly,  Vance,  do  you 
really  dislike  to  mix  in  crowds — you,  with  your 
fame,  dislike  the  eyes  that  turn  back  to  look 
again,  and  the  lips  that  respccifully  murmur, 
'Vance,  the  Painter?'  Ah,  I  always  said  you 
K 


Superb!  Car  fit  for  the  'Grecian  youth  of 
talents  rare,'  in  Mr.  Enfield's  Speaker ;  horse 
that  seems  conjured  out  of  the  Elgin  marbles. 
Is  he  quiet?" 

"  Not  very ;  but  trust  to  my  driving.  You 
may  well  admire  the  horse — present  from  Dar- 
rell,  chosen  by  Colonel  Morley." 

When  the  young  men  had  settled  themselves 
in  the  vehicle,  Lionel  dismissed  his  groom,  and, 
touching  his  horse,  the  animal  trotted  out  briskly. 

"  Frank,"  said  Lionel,  shaking  his  dark  curls 
*with  a  petulant  gravity,  "Your  cynical  defini- 
tions are  unworthy  that  masculine  beard.  You 
despise  fame !  what  sheer  attectation ! 

"  Pulvereni  Olymiijcum 
Collegissc  juvat ;  metaque  fer\idis 
Evitata  rotis ." 

"Take  care,"  cried  Vance;  "we  shall  be 
over."  For  Lionel,  growing  excited,  teased  the 
horse  with  his  whiji ;  and  the  horse  bolting,  took 
the  cab  within  an  inch  of  a  water-cart. 

"Fame,  Fame!"  cried  Lionel,  unheeding  the 
interruption.  "  What  would  I  not  give  to  have 
and  to  hold  it  for  an  hour!" 

"  Hold  an  eel,  less  sli])i)ery ;  a  scorpion,  less 
stinging !  But — "  added  Vance,  observing  his 
companion's  heightened  color.  "  But,"  he  add- 
ed seriously,  and  with  an  honest  compimction, 
"  I  forgot,  you  are  a  soldier,  you  follow  tlie 
career  of  arms!  Never  heed  what  is  said  on 
the  subject  by  a  querulous  painter !  The  desire 
of  fame  may  be  folly  in  civilians,  in  soldiers  it 
is  wisdom.  Twin-born  with  the  martial  sense 
of  honor,  it  cheers  the  march,  it  warms  the  bi- 
vouac ;  it  gives  music  to  the  whirr  of  the  bullet, 
the  roar  of  the  ball ;  it  plants  hope  in  the  thick  of 
peril ;  knits  rivals  with  the  bond  of  brothers;  com- 
forts the  survivor  when  the  brother  falls  ;  takes 
from  war  its  grim  aspect  of  carnage ;  and  from 
homicide  itself  extracts  lessons  that  strengthen 
the  safeguards  to  humanity,  and  i)erpetuate  life 
to  nations.  Right — pant  for  fame  ;  you  are  a 
soldier !" 

This  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  high  sentiment 
from  Vance,  which,  as  they  were  veiy  rare  with 
him,  had  tlie  dramatic  cftect  of  surjirise.  Lio- 
nel listened  to  him  with  a  thrilling  delight.  He 
could  not  answer,  he  was  too  moved.  The  art- 
ist resumed,  as  the  cabriolet  now  cleared  the 
Park,  and  rolled  safely  and  rajiidly  along  the 
road.  "I  suppose,  during  the  five  years  you 
have  spent  abroad,  completing  your  general  ed- 
ucation, you  have  made  little  study,  or  none,  of 
what  specially  appertains  to  the  profession  you 
have  so  recently  chosen." 

"You  are  mistaken  there,  my  dear  Vance. 
If  a  man's  heart  be  set  on  a  thing,  he  is  always 
studying  it.  The  books  I  loved  best,  and  most 
pondered  over,  were  such  as,  if  they  did  not  ad- 
minister lessons,  suggested  hints  that  might  turn 
to  lessons  hereafter.  In  social  intercourse,  I 
never  was  so  pleased  as  when  I  could  fasten  my- 


UG 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


self  to  some  practical  veteran — question  and 
cross-examine  him.  One  picks  up  more  ideas 
in  conversation  than  from  books ;  at  least  I  do. 
Besides,  my  idea  of  a  soldier  who  is  to  succeed 
soma  dav,  is  not  that  of  a  mere  mechanician  at 
arms.  See  how  accomplished  most  gi-eat  cap- 
tains have  been.  What  obsei-vers  of  mankind ! 
— What  diplomatists  —  what  reasoners !  what 
men  of  action,  because  men  to  whom  reflection 
had  been  habitual  before  they  acted!  How 
many  stores  of  idea  must  have  gone  to  the  judg- 
ment which  hazards  the  sortie,  or  decides  on  the 
retreat !" 

"  Gently,  gently  !"  cried  Vance.  '-We  shall 
be  into  that  omnibus !  Give  me  the  whip — do  ; 
tliere— a  little  more  to  the  left — so.  Yes  :  I  am 
glad  to  see  such  euthusiasm  in  your  profession 
— 'tis  half  the  battle.  Hazlitt'  said  a  capital 
thing,  '  the  'prentice  who  does  not  consider  the 
Lord  Mayor  in  his  gilt  coach  the  greatest  man 
in  the  world  will  live  to  be  hanged !'  " 

"Pish!"  said  Lionel,  catching  at  the  whip.    ' 

Vance  (holding  it  back).  "Xo.  I  apologize 
instead.  I  retract  the  Lord  Mayor;  compari- 
sons are  odious.  I  agree  with  you,  nothing  like 
leather — I  mean  nothing  like  a  really  great  sol- 
dier—  Hannibal,  and  so  forth.  Cherish  that 
conviction,  my  boy ;  meanwhile,  respect  human 
hfe — there  is  another  omnibus !" 

The  danger  past,  the  artist  thought  it  prudent 
to  divert  the  conversation  into  some  channel  less 
exciting. 

"Mr.  DaiTell,  of  course,  consents  to  your 
choice  of  a  profession  ?" 

"Consents  —  approves,  encourages.  Wrote 
me  such  a  beautiful  letter — what  a  comprehen- 
sive intelligence  that  man  has !" 

"Necessarily;  since  he  agrees  with  you. 
Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  I  have  no  notion  ;  it  is  some  months  since 
I  heard  from  him.  He  was  then  at  Malta,  on 
his  return  from  Asia  Minor." 

"  So!  you  have  never  seen  him  since  he  bade 
you  farewell  at  his  old  ^Manor-House  ?" 

"Never.  He  has  not,  I  believe,  been  in  En- 
gland." 

■'  Nor  in  Paris,  where  you  seem  to  have  chief- 
ly resided?" 

"Nor  in  Paris.  Ah,  Vance,  could  I  but  be 
of  some  comfort  to  him !  Now  that  I  am  older, 
I  think  I  understand  in  him  much  that  perplex- 
ed me  as  a  boy,  when  we  parted.  Darrell  is 
one  of  those  men  who  require  a  home.  Between 
the  great  world  and  solitude,  he  needs  the  inter- 
mediate filling  up  which  the  life  domestic  alone 
supplies :  a  wife  to  realize  the  sweet  word  help- 
mate— children,  with  whose  future  he  could  knit 
his  own  toils  and  his  ancestral  remembrances. 
That  intermediate  space  annihilated,  the  great 
world  and  the  solitude  are  left,  each  frowning 
on  the  other." 

"  My  dear  Lionel,  you  must  have  lived  with 
very  clever  people ;  you  are  talking  far  above 
your  years." 

"  Am  I  ?  True,  I  have  lived,  if  not  with  very 
clever  people,  with  people  far  above  my  years. 
That  is  a  secret  I  learned  from  Colonel  Morley, 
to  whom  I  must  present  you — the  subtlest  intel- 
lect under  the  quietest  manner.  Once  he  said 
to  me,  'Would  you  throughout  life  be  up  to  the 
height  of  your  century — always  in  the  prime  of 
man's  reason — without  crudeness  and  without 


decline — live  habitually,  while  young,  with  per- 
sons older,  and,  when  old,  with  persons  younger 
than  yourself.' " 

"Shrewdly  said,  indeed.  I  felicitate  you  on 
the  e\-ident  result  of  the  maxim.  And  so  Dar- 
rell has  no  home  ;  no  wife,  and  no  children?" 

"He  has  long  been  a  widower;  he  lost  his 
only  son  in  boyhood,  and  his  daughter — did  you 
never  hear?" 

"No — what — ?" 

"  Married  so  ill — a  runaway  match — and  died 
many  years  since,  without  issue." 

"Poor  man!  It  was  these  afflictions,  then, 
that  soured  his  life,  and  made  him  the  hermit 
or  the  wanderer  ?" 

"There,"  said  Lionel,  "I  am  puzzled;  for 
I  find  that  even  after  his  son's  death  and  his 
daughter's  unhappy  marriage  and  estrangement 
from  him,  he  was  still  in  Parliament,  and  in 
full  activity  of  career.  But  certainly  he  did  not 
long  keep  it  up.  It  might  have  been  an  effort 
to  which,  strong  as  he  is,  he  felt  himself  une- 
qual ;  or,  might  he  have  known  some  fresh  dis- 
appointment, some  new  sorrow  which  the  world 
never  guesses  ?  what  I  have  said  as  to  his  fam- 
ily afflictions  the  world  knows.  But  I  think  he 
will  marry  again.  That  idea  seemed  strong  in 
his  own  mind  when  we  parted;  he  brought  it 
out  bluntly,  roughly.  Colonel  Morley  is  con- 
vinced that  he  will  many,  if  but  for  the  sake  of 
an  heir." 

Vance.  "  And  if  so,  my  poor  Lionel,  you  are 
ousted  of — " 

Lionel  (quickly  inteirupting).  "Hush!  Do 
not  say,  my  dear  Vance,  do  not  you  say — you  I 
— one  of  those  low,  mean  things  which,  if  said 
to  me  even  by  men  for  whom  I  have  no  es- 
teem, make  my  cars  tingle  and  my  cheek  blush. 
When  I  thinkof  what  Darrell  has  already  done 
for  me — me  who  have  no  claim  on  him — it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  must  hate  the  man  who  insinuates, 
'Fear  lest  your  benefactor  find  a  smile  at  his 
own  hearth,  a  child  of  his  own  blood — ^for  you 
may  be  richer  at  his  death  in  proportion  as  his 
life  is  desolate." 

Vanxe.  "You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Take  care  of  that  milestone 
— thank  you.  But  I  suspect  that  at  least  two- 
thirds  of  "those  friendly  hands  that  detained  you 
on  the  way  to  me,  were  stretched  out  less  to  Li- 
onel Haughton — a  Cornet  in  the  Guards — than 
to  Mr.  Darrell's  heir-presum])tive." 

Lionel.  "That  thought  sometimes  galls  me, 
but  it  docs  me  good ;  for  it  goads  on  my  desire 
to  make  myself  some  one  whom  the  most  world- 
ly would  not  disdain  to  know  for  his  own  sake. 
Oh  for  active  service! — Oh  for  a  sharp  cam- 
paign ! — Oh  for  fair  trial  how  far  a  man  in  earn- 
est can  grapple  Fortune  to  his  breast  with  his 
own  strong  hands !  You  have  done  so,  Vance  ; 
you  had  but  your  genius  and  your  .painter's 
"brush.  I  have  no  genius,  but  I  have  resolve, 
and  resolve  is  perhaps  as  sure  of  its  ends  as 
genius.  Genius  and  Resolve  have  three  grand 
elements  in  common — Patience,  Hope,  Concen- 
tration." 

Vance,  more  and  more  surprised,  looked  hard 
at  Lionel,  without  speaking.  Five  years  of  that 
critical  age,  from  seventeen  to  twenty-two,  spent 
in  the  great  capital  of  Europe— kept  from  its 
more  dangerous  vices  partly  by  a  proud  sense 
of  personal  dignity,  partly  by  a  temperament 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


147 


which,  re^^arding  love  as  an  kleal  for  all  tender 
and  sublime  emotion,  recoiled  from  low  jiroiii- 
gacy  as  being  to  Love  what  tlie  Yahoo  of  the 
mocking  satirist  was  to  Jlan — absorbed  much 
by  the  brooding  ambition  that  takes  youtli  out 
of  the  frivolous  present  into  the  serious  future, 
and  seeking  companionship,  not  with  contempo- 
rary idlers,  but  with  the  highest  and  niaturest 
intellects  that  the  free  commonwealth  of  good 
society  brought  within  his  reach — Five  years  so 
spent  had  developed  a  boy,  nursing  noble  dreams, 
into  a  man  fit  for  noble  action — retaining  fresh- 
est vouth  in  its  enthusiasm,  its  elevation  of  sen- 
timent, its  daring,  its  energy,  and  divine  credu- 
lity in  its  own  unexhausted  resources;  but  bor- 
rowing from  maturity  compactness  and  solidity 
of  idea — the  link  between  speculation  and  jn-ac- 
ticc — the  power  to  impress  on  others  a  sense  of 
the  superiority  which  has  been  scIf-cUiborated 
by  unconscious  culture. 

"So!"  said  Vance,  after  a  prolonged  pause, 
"I  don't  know  whether  I  have  resolve  or  genius  ; 
but,  certainly,  if  I  have  made  my  way  to  some 
small  reputation,  patience,  hope,  and  concentra- 
tion of  purpose  must  have  the  credit  of  it ;  and 
pnidcncc,  too,  which  you  have  forgotten  to  name, 
and  certainly  don't  evince  as  a  charioteer.  I 
hope,  my  dear  fellow,  you  arc  not  extravagant. 
No  debts,  eh? — why  do  you  laugh?" 

"The  question  is  so  like  you,  Frank — thrifty 
as  ever." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  have  painted  with  a 
calm  mind,  if  I  knew  that  at  my  door  there  was 
a  dun  whom  I  could  not  pay  ?  Art  needs  seren- 
ity ;  and  if  an  artist  begin  his  career  with  as 
few  shirts  to  his  back  as  I  had,  he  mi:st  place 
economy  among  the  rules  of  perspective." 

Lionel  laughed  again,  and  made  some  com- 
ments on  economy  which  were  certainly,  if 
smart,  rather  flippant,  and  tended  not  only  to 
lower  the  favorable  estimate  of  his  intellectual 
improvement  which  Vance  had  just  formed,  but 
seriously  disquieted  the  kindly  artist.  Vance 
knew  the  world — knew  the  peculiar  temptations 
to  which  a  young  man  in  Lionel's  position  would 
be  exposed — knew  that  contempt  for  economy 
belongs  to  that  school  of  Peripatetics  which  re- 
serves its  last  lessons  for  finished  disciples  in 
the  sacred  walks  of  the  Queen's  Bench. 

However,  that  was  no  auspicious  moment  for 
didactic  warnings. 

"Here  we  are!"  cried  Lionel — "Putney 
Bridge." 

They  reached  the  little  inn  by  the  river-side, 
and  while  dinner  was  getting  ready,  they  hired 
a  boat.     Vance  took  the  oars. 

Vaxce.  ' '  Kot  so  pretty  here  as  by  those  green 
quiet  banks  along  which  we  glided,  at  moon- 
light, five  years  ago." 

Lionel.  "Ah,  no.  And  that  innocent,  charm- 
ing child,  whose  portrait  you  took — you  have 
never  heard  of  her  since  ?" 

Vanxe.  "  Never !  How  should  I  ?  Have 
70U?" 

Lionel.  "  Only  what  Darrell  repeated  to  me. 
His  lawyer  had  ascertained  that  she  and  her 
grandfather  had  gone  to  America.  Darrell 
gently  implied  that,  from  what  he  learned  of 
them,  they  scarcely  merited  the  interest  I  felt 
in  their  fate.  But  we  were  not  deceived — were 
we,  Vance  ?" 

Vance.  "No;  the  little  girl — what  was  her 


name  ?  Sukcy  ?  Sally  ? — Sophy — true,  Sophy — 
had  something  about  her  extremely  jjrepossess- 
ing,  besides  her  pretty  face;  and,  in  spite  of 
that  horrid  cotton  print,  I  shall  never  forget 
it." 

Lionel.  "  Ilcr  face !  Nor  I.  I  see  it  still 
before  me !" 

Vance.  "  Her  cotton  jjrintl  I  see  it  still  be- 
fore me!  But  I  must  not  be  ungrateful.  Would 
you  believe  it,  that  little  jiortrait,  which  cost  me 
three  pounds,  has  made,  I  don't  say  my  fortune, 
but  my  fashion?" 

Lionel.  "  How  !  You  had  the  heart  to  sell 
it?" 

Vance.  "No;  I  kept  it  as  a  study  for  young 
female  heads — '  with  variations,'  as  they  say  in 
music.  It  was  by  my  female  heads  that  I  be- 
came the  fashion  ;  every  order  I  have  contains 
the  condition — 'But  be  sure,  one  of  your  sweet 
female  heads,  Mr.  Vance.'  JSIy  female  heads 
are  as  necessary  to  my  canvas  as  a  white  horse 
to  Wouvermans'.  Well,  that  child,  who  cost 
me  three  pounds,  is  the  original  of  them  all. 
Commencing  as  a  Titania,  she  has  been  in  turns 
a  'Psyche,'  a  'Beatrice  Cenci,'  a  'ilinna,'  'A 
Portrait  of  a  Nobleman's  Daughter,'  '  Burns's 
^Lary  in  Heaven,'  'The  Young  Gleaner,'  and 
'  Sabrina  fair,'  in  Milton's  Coinus.  I  have  led 
that  child  through  all  history,  sacred  and  pro- 
fane. I  have  painted  her  in  all  costumes  (her 
own  cotton  print  excepted).  My  female  heads 
are  mv  glory — even  the  Times'  critic  allows  that! 
'  Mr.  Vance,  there,  is  inimitable !  a  type  of  child- 
like grace  peculiarly  his  own,  etc.,  etc'  I'll 
lend  you  the  article." 

Lionel.  "And  shall  we  never  again  see  the 
original  darling  Sophy  ?  Y'ou  will  laugh,  Vance, 
but  I  have  been  heart-proof  against  all  young 
ladies.  If  ever  I  marry,  my  wife  must  have 
Sophy's  eyes !     In  America !" 

Vance.  "Let  us  hope  by  this  time  happily 
married  to  a  Yankee  !  Y'ankees  marry  girls  in 
their  teens,  and  don't  ask  for  dowries.  Married 
to  a  Y'ankee !  not  a  doubt  of  it !  a  Yankee  who 
chaws,  whittles,  and  keeps  a  'store!'" 

Lionel.  "  Monster !  Hold  your  tongue ! 
Apropos  of  marriage,  why  are  you  still  single?" 

Vance.  "  Because  I  have  no  wish  to  be  doub- 
led up!  Moreover,  man  is  like  a  napkin,  the 
more  neatly  the  housewife  doubles  him,  the 
more  carefully  she  lays  him  on  the  shelf.  Nei- 
ther can  a  man  once  doubled  know  how  often 
he  may  be  doubled.  Not  only  his  wife  folds 
him  in  two,  but  every  child  quarters  him  into  a 
new  double,  till  what  was  a  wide  and  handsome 
substance,  large  enough  for  any  thing  in  reason, 
dwindles  into  a  pitiful  square  that  will  not  cover 
one  platter — all  puckers  and  creases — smaller 
and  smaller  with  every  double  —  with  every 
double  a  new  crease.  Then,  my  friend,  comes 
the  washing  bill !  and,  besides  all  the  hurts  one 
receives  in  the  mangle,  consider  the  hourly 
wear  and  tear  of  the  linen-press!  In  short, 
Shakspeare  vindicates  the  single  life,  and  de- 
picts the  double  in  the  famous  line— which  is 
no  doubt  intended  to  be  allegorical  of  mar- 
riage— 

'Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble.' 

Besides,  no  single  man  can  be  lairly  called  poor. 
What  double  man  can  with  certainty  be  called 
rich  ?  A  single  man  can  lodge  in  a  garret,  and 
dine  on  a  herring ;  nobody  knows,  nobody  cares. 


148 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Let  him  marrr,  and  he  invites  the  world  to  wit- 
ness where  he"  lodges,  and  how  he  dines.  The 
first  necessary  a  wife  demands  is  the  most  ruin- 
ous, the  most  indefinite  superfluity ;  it  is  Gen- 
tility according  to  wliat  her  neighbors  call  gen- 
teel". Gentility  commences  with  the  honey-moon ; 
it  is  its  shadow,  and  lengthens  as  the  moon  de- 
clines. When  the  lioney  is  all  gone,  your  bride 
savs,  '  We  can  have  our  tea  without  sugar  when 
quite  alone,  love ;  but  in  case  Gentility  drop  in, 
here's  a  bill  for  silver  sugar-tongs !'  That's  why 
I'm  single." 

"Economy  again,  Vance." 

"  Prudence — dignity,"  answered  Vance,  se- 
riously ;  and  sinking  into  a  reverie  that  seemed 
gloomy,  he  shot  back  to  shore. 


CHAPTER  m. 

Mr.  Vance  explains  how  he  came  to  grind  colors  and 
save  half-pence. — -V  sudden  announcement 

The  meal  was  over  —  the  table  had  been 
spread  by  a  window  that  looked  upon  the  river. 
The  moijn  was  up ;  the  young  men  asked  for 
no  other  lights ;  conversation  betweea  them — 
often  shifting,  often  pausing — had  gradually  be- 
come grave,  as  it  usually  does,  with  two  com- 
panions in  youth ;  while  yet  long  vistas  in  the 
Future  stretch  before  them  deep  in  shadow,  and 
they  fall  into  confiding  talk  on  what  they  wish — 
what  they  fear;  making  visionary  maps  in  that 
limitless  Obscure. 

"There  is  so  much  power  in  faith,"  said  Li- 
onel, "even  when  faith  is  applied  but  to  things 
human  and  earthly,  that  let  a  man  be  but  firm- 
ly persuaded  that  he  is  born  to  do,  some  day, 
what  at  the  moment  seems  impossible,  and  it  is 
fifty  to  one  but  what  he  does  it  before  he  dies. 
Surely,  when  you  were  a  child  at  school,  you 
felt  convinced  that  thei'e  was  something  in  your 
fate  distinct  from  that  of  the  other  boys — whom 
the  master  might  call  quite  as  clever — felt  that 
faith  in  yourself  which  made  you  sure  that  you 
would  be  one  day  what  you  are." 

"AYell,  I  suppose  so;  but  vague  aspirations 
and  self-conceits  must  be  bound  together  by 
some  practical  necessity — perhaps  a  very  home- 
ly and  a  very  vulgar  one — or  they  scatter  and 
evaporate.  One  would  think  that  rich  people 
in  high  life  ought  to  do  more  than  poor  folks  in 
humble  life.  More  pains  are  taken  with  their 
education  ;  they  have  more  leisure  for  following 
the  bent  of  their  genius  ;  yet  it  is  the  poor  folks, 
often  half  self-educated,  and  with  pinched  bel- 
lies, that  do  three-fourths  of  the  world's  grand 
labor.  Poverty  is  the  keenest  stimulant,  and 
poverty  made  me  not  say,  'I  icill  do,'  but  'I 
must.^ " 

"  You  knew  real  poverty  in  childhood, 
Frank  ?" 

"Ileal  poverty,  covered  over  with  sham  afflu- 
ence. My  father  was  Genteel  Poverty,  and  my 
mother  was  Poor  Gentility.  The  sham  affluence 
went  when  my  father  died.  The  real  poverty 
then  came  out  in  all  its  ugliness.  I  was  taken 
from  a  genteel  school,  at  which,  long  afterward. 
I  genteelly  paid  the  bills ;  and  I  had  to  support 
my  mother  somehow  or  other — somehow  or  oth- 
er I  succeeded.  Alas,  I  fear  not  genteelly  I 
But  before  I  lost  her,  which  I  did  in  a  few  years. 


she  had  some  comforts  which  were  not  appear- 
ances ;  and  she  kindly  allowed,  dear  soul,  that 
gentility  and  shams  do  not  go  well  together. 
Oh !  beware  of  debt,  LioneUo  into ;  and  never 
call  that  economy  meanness  which  is  but  the 
safeguard  from  mean  degradation." 

"  I  understand  you  at  last,  Vance  ;  shake 
hands ;  I  know  why  you  are  saving." 

"  Habit  now,"  answered  Vance,  repressing 
praise  of  himself,  as  usual.  "But  I  remember 
so  well  when  twopence  was  a  sum  to  be  respect- 
ed, that  to  this  day  I  would  rather  put  it  by 
than  spend  it.  All  our  ideas,  like  orange-plants, 
spread  out  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  box 
which  imprisons  the  roots.  Then  I  had  a  sis- 
ter." Vance  paused  a  moment  as  if  in  pain, 
but  went  on  with  seeming  carelessness,  leaning 
over  the  window-sill,  and  turning  his  face  from 
his  friend.  "  I  had  a  sister  older  than  myself, 
handsome,  gentle.  I  was  so  proud  of  her ! 
Foolish  girl !  my  love  was  not  enough  for  her. 
Foolish  girl !  she  could  not  wait  to  see  what  I 
might  live  to  do  for  her.  She  married — oh  I  so 
genteelly ! — a  young  man,  very  well  born,  who 
had  wooed  her  before  my  father  died.  He  had 
the  villainy  to  remain  constant  when  she  had  not 
a  farthing,  and  he  was  dependent  on  distant  re- 
lations and  his- own  domains  in  Parnassus.  The 
wretch  was  a  poet !  So  they  married.  They 
spent  their  honey-moon  genteelly,  I  dare  say. 
His  relations  cut  him.  Parnassus  paid  no  rents. 
He  went  abroad.  Such  heart-rending  letters 
from  her  I  They  were  destitute.  How  I  work- 
ed! how  I  raged  I  But  how  could  I  maintain 
her  and  her  husband  too,  mere  child  that  I  was  ? 
No  matter.  They  are  dead  now,  both ;  all  dead 
for  whose  sake  I  first  ground  colors  and  saved 
half-pence.  And  Frank  Vance  is  a  stingy,  self- 
ish bachelor.  Never  revive  this  dull  subject 
again,  or  I  shall  borrow  a  crown  from  you,  and 
cut  you  dead.  Waiter,  ho ! — the  bill.  I'll  just 
go  round  to  the  stables,  and  see  the  horse  put 
to." 

As  the  friends  re-entered  London  Vance  said, 
"Put  me  down  any  where  in  Piccadilly;  I  will 
walk  home.  You,  I  suppose,  of  course,  are  stay- 
ing with  your  mother  in  Gloucester  Place  ?" 

"No,''  said  Lionel,  rather  emban-assed;  "  Col- 
onel ]Morley,  who  acts  for  me  as  if  he  were  my 
guardian,  took  a  lodging  for  me  in  Chesterfield 
Street,  Mayfair.  ily  hours,  I  fear,  would  ill 
suit  my  dear  mother.  Only  in  town  two  days ; 
and,  thanks  to  IMorley,  my  table  is  already  cov- 
ered with  invitations." 

"  Yet  you  gave  me  one  day,  generous  friend  I" 

"You  the  second  day — my  mother  the  first. 
But  there  ai-e  three  balls  before  me  to-night. 
Come  home  with  me,  and  smoke  your  cigar 
while  I  dress." 

"No;  but  I  will  at  least  light  my  cigar  in 
your  hall — prodigal  I" 

Lionel  now  stopped  at  his  lodging.  The 
groom,  who  served  him  also  as  valet,  was  in 
waiting  at  the  door.  "A  note  for  you.  Sir, 
from  Colonel  Moidey — just  come."  Lionel  hast- 
ily opened  it,  and  read : 

" "  ]Mt  dear  Haughton, — ilr.  Dan-ell  has  sud- 
denly arrived  in  London.  Keep  yourself  free 
all  to-morrow,  when,  no  doubt,  he  will  see  you. 
I  am  hun-yiug  off  to  him.  Yours  in  haste, 
A,  V.  M." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


149 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Oace  more  Guy  DarrelL 

GrT  D.UIRELL  was  alone.  A  lofty  room  in 
a  large  house,  on  the  first  floor.  His  own  house 
in  Carlton  Gardens,  which  he  had  occupied  dur- 
ing his  brief  and  brilliant  parliamentary  career ; 
since  then,  left  contemptuously  to  the  care  of  a 
house-agent,  to  be  let  by  year  or  by  season,  it 
had  known  various  tenants  of  an  opulence  and 
station  suitable  to  its  space  and  site.  Dinners 
and  concerts,  routes  and  balls,  had  assembled 
the  friends  and  jaded  the  spirits  of  many  a  gra- 
cious host  and  smiling  hostess.  The  tenure  of 
one  of  these  temporary  occupants  had  recently 
expired,  and  ere  the  agent  had  found  another 
the  long-absent  owner  dropped  down  into  its  si- 
lenced halls  as  from  the  clouds,  without  other 
establishment  than  his  old  servant  !Mills  and  the 
woman  in  charge  of  the  house.  There,  as  in  a 
caravanserai,  the  traveler  took  his  rest,  stately 
and  desolate.  Nothing  so  comfortless  as  one 
of  those  large  London  houses  all  to  one's  self. 
In  long  rows  against  the  walls  stood  the  empty 
fauteuUs.  Spectral  from  the  gilded  ceiling  hung 
lightless  chandeliers.  The  furniture,  pompous, 
but  worn  by  use  and  faded  by  time,  seemed  me- 
mentoes of  departed  revels.  When  you  return 
to  yoiu"  own  house  in  the  country — no  matter 
how  long  the  absence — no  matter  how  decayed 
by  neglect  the  friendly  chambers  may  be — if  it 
has  only  been  deserted  in  the  mean  while  (not 
let  to  new  races,  who,  by  their  own  shifting  dy- 
nasties, have  supplanted  the  rightful  lord,  and 
half-efl'aced  his  memorials),  the  walls  may  still 
greet  you  forgivingly,  the  character  of  Home  be 
still  tiiere.  You  take  up  again  the  thread  of  as- 
sociations which  had  been  suspended,  not  snap- 
ped. But  it  is  otherwise  with  a  house  in  cities, 
especially  in  our  fast-living  London,  where  few 
houses  descend  from  father  to  son — where  the 
title-deeds  are  rarely  more  than  those  of  a  pur- 
chased lease  for  a  term  of  years,  after  which 
your  property  quits  you.  A  house  in  London, 
which  your  father  never  entered,  in  which  no 
elbow-chair,  no  old-fashioned  work-table,  recalls 
to  you  the  kind  smile  of  a  mother — a  house  that 
you  have  left  as  you  leave  an  inn,  let  to  people 
whose  names  you  scarce  know,  with  as  little  re- 
spect for  your  family  records  as  you  have  for 
theirs.  \Mien  you  return  after  a  long  interval 
of  years  to  a  house  like  that,  you  stand  as  stood 
Darrell  —  a  forlorn  stranger  under  your  own 
roof-tree.  What  cared  he  for  those  who  had 
last  gathered  round  those  hearths  with  their 
chilL  steely  grates — whose  forms  had  reclined 
on  those  formal  couches — whose  feet  had  worn 
away  the  gloss  from  those  costly  carpets  ?  His- 
tories in  the  lives  of  many  might  be  recorded 
within  those  walls.  Lovers  there  had  breathed 
their  first  vows;  bridal  feasts  had  been  held; 
babes  had  crowed  in  the  arms  of  proud  young 
mothers;  politicians  there  had  been  raised  into 
ministers ;  ministers  there  had  fallen  back  into 
"independent  members;"  through  those  doors 
coryjses  had  been  borne  forth  to  relentless  vaults. 
For  these  races  and  their  records  what  cared 
the  owner?  Their  writing  was  not  on  the  walls. 
Sponged  out  as  from  a  slate,  their  reckonings 
with  Time,  leaving  dim,  here  and  there,  some 
chance  scratch  of  his  own,  blurred  and  by-gone. 
Leaning  against  the  mantle-piece,  Darrell  gazed 


round  the  room  with  a  vague,  wistful  look,  as 
if  seeking  to  conjure  up  associations  that  might 
link  the  present  hour  to  that  jjast  life  which  had 
slipped  away  elsewhere ;  and  his  profile,  reflect- 
ed on  the  mirror  behind,  pale  and  mournful, 
seemed  like  that  ghost  of  himself  which  his 
memorv'  silently  evoked. 

The  man  is  but  little  altered  externally  since 
we  saw  him  last,  however  inly  changed  since  he 
last  stood  on  those  unwelcoming  floors ;  the  form 
still  retained  the  same  vigor  and  symmetry — 
the  same  unspeakable  dignity  of  mien  and  bear- 
ing— the  same  thoughtful  bend  of  the  proud 
neck — so  distinct,  in  its  elastic  rebound,  from 
the  stoop  of  debility  or  age.  Thick  as  ever  the 
rich  mass  of  dark  brown  hair,  though,  when  in 
the  impatience  of  some  painful  thought,  his 
hand  swept  the  loose  curls  from  his  forehead, 
the  silver  threads  might  now  be  seen  shooting 
here  and  there — vanishing  almost  as  soon  as 
seen.  Xo,  whatever  the  baptismal  register  may 
say  to  the  contrary,  that  man  is  not  old — not 
even  elderly  ;  in  the  deep  of  that  clear  gray  eye 
light  may  be  calm,  but  in  calm  it  is  vivid;  not 
a  ray;  sent  from  brain  or  from  heart,  is  yet  flick- 
ering down.  On  the  whole,  however,  there  is 
less  composure  than  of  old  in  his  mien  and  bear- 
ing— less  of  that  resignation  which  seemed  to 
say,  "I  have  done  with  the  substances  of  life." 
Still  there  was  gloom,  but  it  was  more  broken 
and  restless.  Evidently  that  human  breast  was 
again  admitting,  or  forcing  itself  to  court,  hu- 
man hopes,  human  objects.  Keturning  to  the 
substances  of  life,  their  movement  was  seen  in 
the  shadows  which,  when  they  wrap  us  round 
at  remoter  distance,  seem  to  lose  their  trouble 
as  they  gain  their  width.  He  broke  from  his 
musing  attitude  with  an  abrupt,  angry  move- 
ment, as  if  shaking  oft' thoughts  which  displeased 
him,  and  gathering  his  arms  tightly  to  his  breast, 
in  a  gesture  peculiar  to  himself,  walked  to  and 
fro  the  room,  murmuring  inaudibly.  The  door 
opened;  he  turned  quickly,  and  with  an  evident 
sense  of  relief,  for  his  face  brightened.  "Al- 
ban.  my  dear  Alban  I" 

"  Darrell — old  friend  —  old  school-friend — 
dear,  dear  Guy  Darrell !"  The  two  Englishmen 
stood,  hands  tightly  clasped  in  each  other,  in 
true  English  greeting — their  eyes  moistening 
with  remembrances  that  earned  them  back  to 
boyhood. 

Alban  was  the  first  to  recover  self-possession  ; 
and  when  the  friends  had  seated  themselves, 
he  surveyed  Darrell's  countenance  deliberate- 
ly, and  said:  "So  little  change  I  —  wonderful! 
What  is  your  secret  ?" 

"  Suspense  from  life — hybernating.  But  you 
beat  me  ;  you  have  been  spending  life,  yet  seem 
as  rich  in  it  as  when  we  parted." 

"Xo;  I  begin  to  decry  the  present  and  laud 
the  past — to  read  with  glasses,  to  decide  from 
prejudice,  to  recoil  from  change,  to  find  sense 
in  twaddle — to  know  the  value  of  health  from 
the  fear  to  lose  it — feel  an  interest  in  rheuma- 
tism, an  awe  of  bronchitis — to  tell  anecdotes 
and  to  wear  flannel.  To  you  in  strict  confidence 
I  disclose  the  truth — I  am  no  longer  twenty-five. 
You  laugh — this  is  civilized  talk ;  does  it  not  re- 
fresh you  after  the  gibberish  you  must  have  chat- 
tered in  Asia  Minor?" 

Darrell  might  have  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive with  truth.     What  man,  after  long  years  of 


150 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


solitude,  is  not  refreshed  by  talk,  however  triv- 
ial, that  recalls  to  him  the  gay  time  of  the  world 
he  remembered  in  his  young  day — and  recalls 
it  to  him  on  the  lips  of  a  friend  in  youth !  But 
Darrell  said  nothing;  only  he  settled  himself  in 
his  chair  with  a  more  cheerful  ease,  and  inclined 
his  relaxing  brows  with  a  nod  of  encouragement 
or  assent. 

Colonel  Morley  continued.  "But  when  did 
you  arrive?  whence?  How  long  do  you  stay 
iiere  ?     What  are  your  plans  ?" 

Darrell.  "Cscsar  could  not  be  more  lacon- 
ic. When  arrived? — this  evening.  Whence? 
— Ouzelford.  How  long  do  I  stay  ? — uncer- 
tain. What  are  my  plans? — let  us  discuss 
them." 

Colonel  Morley.  "With  all  my  heart.  You 
have  plans,  then? — a  good  sign.  Animals  in 
hybernation  form  none." 

Darrell  (Putting  aside  tlic  liglits  on  the  ta- 
ble, so  as  to  leave  his  face  in  shade,  and  look- 
ing toward  the  floor  as  he  speaks).  "  For  the  last 
five  years  I  have  struggled  hard  to  renew  inter- 
est in  mankind,  reconnect  myself  with  common 
life  and  its  healthful  objects.  Between  Fawlcy 
and  London  I  desired  to  form  a  magnetic  me- 
dium. I  took  rather  a  vast  one — nearly  all  the 
rest  of  the  known  world.  I  have  visited  both 
Americas — either  Ind.  All  Asia  have  I  ran- 
sacked, and  pierced  as  far  into  Africa  as  travel- 
er ever  went  in  search  of  Timbuctoo.  But  I 
have  sojourned  also,  at  long  intervals — at  least 
they  seemed  long  to  me — in  the  gay  capitals  of 
Europe  (Paris  excepted);  mixed,  too,  witli  the 
gayest — hired  palaces,  filled  them  with  guests — 
feasted  and  heard  music.  '  Guy  Darrell,'  said 
I,  '  shake  oft'  the  rust  of  years — thou  hadst  no 
youth  while  young.  Be  young  now.  A  holiday 
may  restore  thee  to  wholesome  work,  as  a  holi- 
day restores  the  wearied  school-boy.'  " 

Colonel  Morley.  "  I  comprehend  ;  the  ex- 
pei'iment  succeeded  ?" 

Darrell.  "I  don't  know — not  yet — but  it 
may ;  I  am  here,  and  I  intend  to  stay.  I  would 
not  go  to  a  hotel  for  a  single  day,  lest  my  reso- 
lution should  fail  me.  I  have  thrown  myself 
into  this  castle  of  care  without  even  a  garrison. 
I  hope  to  hold  it.  Help  me  to  man  it.  In  a 
word,  and  without  metaphor,  I  am  here  with  the 
design  of  re-entering  London  life." 

Colonel  Morley.  "I  am  so  glad.  Hearty 
congratulations !  How  rejoiced  all  the  Viponts 
will  be!  Another  'crisis'  is  at  hand.  You 
have  seen  the  newspapei's  regularly,  of  course — 
the  state  of  the  country  interests  you.  You  say 
that  you  come  from  Ouzelford,  the  town  you 
once  represented.  I  guess  you  will  re-enter 
Paidiament ;  you  have  but  to  say  the  word." 

Darrell.  "Parliament!  No.  I  received, 
while  abroad,  so  earnest  a  i-equest  from  my  old 
constituents  to  lay  the  foundation-stoneof  a  new 
Town-hall,  in  which  they  are  much  interested, 
and  my  obligations  to  them  have  been  so  great, 
that  I  could  not  refuse.  I  wrote  to  fix  the  day 
as  soon  as  I  had  resolved  to  return  to  England, 
making  a  condition  that  I  should  be  spared  the 
infliction  of  a  public  dinner,  and  landed  just  in 
time  to  keep  my  appointment — reached  Ouzel- 
ford early  this  morning,  went  through  the  cere- 
mony, made  a  short  speech,  came  on  at  once 
to  London,  not  venturing  to  diverge  to  Fawley 

twllU^ti    ;c   not  vt^r\-  fiv  f'-r.m  On7Clf(n-d^,  ICSt,  OnCC 


there  again,  I  should  not  have  strength  to  leave 
it — and  here  I  am."  Darrell  paused,  then  re- 
peated, in  brisk,  emphatic  tone:  "Parliament? 
No.  Labor  ?  No.  Fellow-man,  I  am  about  to 
confess  to  you ;  I  would  snatch  back  some  days 
of  youth — a  wintry  likeness  of  youth — better 
than  none.  Old  friend,  let  us  amuse  ourselves ! 
When  I  was  working  hard — hard — hard — it  was 
you  who  would  say:  'Come  forth,  be  amused' 
— You  happy  butterfly  that  you  were !  Now,  I 
say  to  you :  '  Show  me  this  flaunting  town  that 
you  know  so  well ;  initiate  me  into  the  joy  of 
polite  pleasures,  social  commune — 

'  Dulce  niihi  furere  est  aiuico.' 
You  have  amusements — let  me  share  them." 

"  Faith,"  quoth  the  Colonel,  crossing  his  legs, 
' '  you  come  late  in  the  day !  Amusements  cease 
to  amuse  at  last.  I  have  tried  all,  and  begin  to 
be  tired.  I  have  had  my  holiday,  exhausted  its 
sports ;  and  you,  coming  from  books  and  desk 
fresh  into  the  playground,  say,  ■' Football  and 
leapfrog.'  Alas  !  my  poor  friend,  why  did  not 
you  come  sooner?" 

Darrell.  "One  word,  one  question.  You 
have  made  ease  a  philosophy  and  a  system ;  no 
man  ever  did  so  with  more  felicitous  grace ;  nor, 
in  following  pleasure,  have  you  parted  company 
with  conscience  and  shame.  A  fine  gentleman 
ever,  in  honor  as  in  elegance.  Well,  are  you 
satisfied  with  your  choice  of  life  ?  Are  you  hap- 
py?" 

"  Happy — who  is  ?     Satisfied — perhaps  !" 

"Is  there  any  one  you  envy — whose  choice, 
other  than  your  own,  you  would  prefer  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Who?" 

"You." 

"I!"  said  Darrell,  opening  his  eyes  with 
unaffected  amaze.  "I!  envy  me!  prefer  my 
choice!" 

Colonel  Morley  (peevishly).  "Without 
doubt.  You  have  had-^gratified  ambition  —  a 
great  career.  Envy  you !  who  would  not  ? 
Your  own  objects  in  life  fulfilled ;  you  coveted 
distinction — you  won  it ;  fortune — your  wealth 
is  immense  ;  the  restoration  of  your  name  and 
lineage  from  obscurity  and  humiliation  —  are 
not  name  and  lineage  again  written  in  the  Li- 
bra d'oro  ?  What  king  would  not  hail  you  as  his 
councilor  ?  what  senate  not  open  its  ranks  to 
admit  you  as  a  chief  ?  what  house,  though  the 
haughtiest  in  the  land,  would  not  accept  your 
alliance  ?  And  withal,  you  stand  before  me 
stalwart  and  unbowed,  young  blood  still  in  your 
veins.  Ungrateful  man  !  who  would  not  change 
lots  with  Guy  Darrell  ?  Fame,  fortune,  health, 
and,  not  to  flatter  you,  a  form  and  presence  that 
would  be  remarked,  though  you  stood  in  that 
black  frock  by  the  side  of  a  monarch  in  his  cor- 
onation robes." 

Darrell.  "  You  have  turned  my  questions 
against  myself  with  a  kindliness  of  intention 
that  makes  me  forgive  your  belief  in  my  vanity. 
Pass  on — or  rather  pass  back  ;  you  say  you  have 
tried  all  in  life  that  distracts  or  sweetens.  Not 
so  ;  lone  bachelor,  you  have  not  tried  wedlock. 
Has  not  that  been  your  mistake  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "Answer  for  yourself. 
You  have  tried  it."  The  words  were  scarce  out 
of  his  mouth  ere  he  repented  the  retort.  For 
Darrell  started  as  if  stung  to  the  quick  ;  and  his 
brow,  before  serene,  his  lip,  before  playful,  grew, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


151 


the  one  darkly  troubled,  the  other  tightly  com- 
jiressed.    "  rardon  mc,"  faltered  out  the  friend. 

Daurell.  "  Oh  yes  ;  I  bronprht  it  on  myself. 
What  stuff  we  have" been  talking  !  Tell  nic  the 
news — not  political — any  other.  But  first,  your 
report  of  young  Ilaughton.  Cordial  thanks  for 
all  vour  kindness  to  him.  You  write  me  word 
that  he  is  much  improved — most  likeable  ;  you 
add  that  at  Paris  he  became  the  rage — that  in 
Loiulon  you  are  sure  he  will  be  extremely  pop- 
ular. Be  it  so,  if  for  his  own  sake.  Are  you 
(juite  sure  that  it  is  not  for  the  expectations 
which  I  come  here  to  dissipate  ?" 

Coi.oNLL  MoRLEY.  "  Much  for  himself,  I  am 
certain  ;  a  little,  perhaps,  because,  whatever  he 
thinks  and  I  say  to  the  contrary — people  seeing 
no  other  heir  to  your  property — " 

"  I  understand,"  inten-upted  Darrell,  quickly. 
"  But  he  does  not  nurse  those  expectations?  he 
will  not  be  disa])pointcd  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Verily  I  believe  that, 
apart  from  his  love  for  you,  and  a  delicacy  of 
sentiment  that  would  recoil  from  planting  hopes 
of  wealth  in  the  graves  of  benefactors,  Lionel 
Ilaughton  would  prefer  can-ing  his  own  fortunes 
to  all  the  ingots  hewed  out  of  California  by  an- 
other's hand,  and  bequeathed  by  another's  will." 

"I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  and  to  trust 
yon." 

"  I  gather  from  what  you  say  that  you  are 
here  with  the  intention  to — to — " 

"  JIarry  again, "  said  Darrell,  firmly.  "  Right. 
I  am." 

"  I  always  felt  sure  you  would  marry  again. 
Is  the  ladv  here,  too  ?" 

"What  lady?" 

"  The  lady  you  have  chosen  ?" 

"  Tush  —  I  have  chosen  none.  I  come  here 
to  choose ;  and  in  this  I  ask  advice  from  your 
experience.  I  would  marry  again  !  I — at  my 
age  !  Ridiculous  !  But  so  it  is.  You  know  all 
the  mothers  and  marriageable  daughters  that 
London — ariJa  iiutrix — rears  for  nuptial  altars 
— where,  among  them,  shall  I,  Guy  Darrell,  the 
man  whom  you  think  so  enviable,  find  the  safe 
helj)mate  whose  love  he  may  reward  with  mu- 
nificent jointure,  to  whose  child  he  may  be- 
queath the  name  that  has  now  no  successor,  and 
the  wealth  he  has  no  heart  to  spend  ?" 

Colonel  Morley — ^\•ho,  as  we  know,  is  by  hab- 
it a  match-maker,  and  likes  the  vocation — as- 
sumes a  placid  but  cogitative  mien,  rubs  his 
brow  gently,  and  says,  in  his  softest,  best-bred 
accents,  "  You  would  not  marry  a  mere  girl  ? 
some  one  of  suitable  age  ?  I  know  several  most 
superior  young  women  on  the  other  side  of  thir- 
ty— Wilhelmina  Prymme,  for  instance,  or  Ja- 
net— " 

Darrell.  "Old maids.    No — decidedly  no  I" 

Colonel  Morley  (suspiciously).  "  But  you 
would  not  risk  the  peace  of  your  old  age  with  a 
girl  of  eighteen,  or  else  I  do  know  a  very  ac- 
complished, well-brought-up  girl ;  just  eighteen 
— who — " 

Darrell.  "  Re-enter  life  by  the  side  of 
Eighteen  !     Am  I  a  madman  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Neither  old  maids,  nor 
young  maids  ;  the  choice  becomes  narrowed. 
You  would  prefer  a  widow.  Ila  I  I  have  thought 
of  one  I  a  prize,  indeed,  could  j'ou  but  win  her 
— the  widow  of — " 

Darrell.  "  Ephesus  !    Bah !  suggest  no  ^^•id- 


ow  to  me.    A  widow,  with  her  affections  buried 
in  the  grave !" 

M(jRLEY.    "  Not  necessarily.      And   in   this 
I  case — " 

Darrell  (interrupting,  and  with  warmth). 
"  In  every  case,  I  tell  you,  no  widow  shall  doff 
her  weeds  for  me.  Did  she  love  the  first  man? 
fickle  is  the  woman  who  can  love  twice.  Did 
she  not  love  him?  why  did  she  maiTy  him? 
perhaps  she  sold  herself  to  a  rent-roll  ?  Shall 
she  sell  herself  again  to  me,  for  a  jointure? 
Heaven  forbid  I  Talk  not  of  widows.  No  dain- 
ty so  flavorless  as  a  Jjeart  warmed  uji  again." 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Neither  maids,  be  they 
old  or  young,  nor  widows.  Possibly  you  want 
an  angel.     London  is  not  the  place  for  angels." 

Darrell.  "  I  grant  that  the  choice  sccnis  in- 
volved in  per])lexity.  Ilowcan  it  be  otherwise, 
if  one's  self  is  perjjlexed  ?  And  yet,  Alban,  I  am 
serious;  and  I  do  not  jjresume  to  be  so  exact- 
ing as  my  words  have  implied.  I  ask  not  for- 
tune, nor  rank  beyond  gentle  blood,  nor  youth, 
nor  beauty,  nor  accomplishments,  nor  fashion  ; 
but  I  do  ask  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only." 

"What  is  that  ?  yon  have  left  nothing  worth 
the  having  to  ask  for." 

"  Nothing !  I  have  left  all.  I  ask  some  one 
whom  I  can  love — love  better  than  all  the  world 
— not  the  vtariage  de  convenance,  not  the  maringe 
de  raison,  but  the  mariage  d'amou?-.  All  other 
marriage,  with  vows  of  love  so  solemn,  with  in- 
timacy of  commune  so  close — all  other  mar- 
riage, in  my  eyes,  is  an  acted  falsehood — a  var- 
nished sin.  Ah!  if  I  had  thought  so  always) 
But  away,  regret  and  repentance  !  The  Future 
alone  is  now  before  me.  Alban  Morley,  I  would 
sign  away  all  I  have  in  the  world  (save  the  old 
house  at  Fawley),  ay,  and  after  signing,  cut  ofl', 
to  boot,  this  right  hand,  could  I  but  once  fall  in 
love ;  love,  and  be  loved  again,  as  any  two  of 
Heaven's  simplest  human  creatures  may  love 
each  other  while  life  is  fresh  !  Strange,  strange 
— look  out  into  the  world  ;  mark  the  man  of  our 
years  who  shall  be  most  courted,  most  adulated, 
or  admired.  Give  him  all  the  attributes  of  pow- 
er, wealth,  royalty,  genius,  fame.  See  all  the 
younger  generations  bow  before  him  with  hope 
or  awe ;  his  word  can  make  their  fortune  ;  at 
his  smile  a  reputation  dawns.  Well ;  now  let 
that  man  say  to  the  young, '  Room  among  your- 
selves— all  that  wins  me  this  homage  I  would 
lay  at  the  feet  of  Beauty.  I  enter  the  lists  of 
love,'  and  straightway  his  power  vanishes,  the 
poorest  booby  of  twenty-four  can  jostle  him 
aside  ;  before  the  object  of  reverence  he  is  now 
the  butt  of  ridicule.  The  instant  lie  asks  right 
to  win  the  heart  of  woman,  a  boy  whom,  in  all 
else,  he  could  rule  as  a  lackey,  cries,  '  Oft",  Gray- 
beard  !  t/iat  realm  at  least  is  mine  I'  " 

"  Tliis  were  but  eloquent  extravagance,  even 
if  your  beard  were  gi'ay.  ^len  older  than  you, 
and  with  half  your  pretensions,  even  of  outward 
form,  have  carried  away  hearts  from  boys  like 
Adonis.  Only  choose  well  ;  that's  the  dithculty 
— if  it  was  not  difficult  who  would  be  a  bach- 
elor !" 

"  Guide  my  choice.    Pilot  me  to  the  haven." 

"Accepted  !  But  you  must  remount  a  suit- 
able establishment ;  reopen  your  way  to  the 
great  world,  and  penetrate  those  sacred  recesses 
where  awaiting  sjiinsters  weave  the  fatal  web. 
Leave  all  to  me.    Let  Mills  (I  see  you  have  him 


152 


.  WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


still)  call  on  me  to-morrow  about  your  menage. 
You  will  give  dinners,  of  course  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  cours?.  Must  I  dine  at  them  my- 
self?" 

Morley  laughed  softly,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"  So  soon,"  cried  Darrell.  "  If  I  fatigue  you 
already,  what  chance  shall  I  have  with  new 
friends  ?" 

"  So  soon !  it  is  past  eleven.  And  it  is  you 
who  must  be  fatigued." 

"  No  such  good  luck ;  were  I  fatigued,  I  might 
hope  to  sleep.  I  will  walk  back  with  you.  Leave 
me  not  alone  in  this  room — alone  in  the  jaws  of 
a  Fish  ;  swallowed  up  by  a  creature  whose  blood 
is  cold." 

"You  have  something  still  to  say  to  me," 
said  Alban,  when  they  were  in  the  open  air; 
"I  detect  it  in  your  manner — ivhat  is  it  ?" 

"I  know  not.  But  you  have  told  me  no 
news ;  these  streets  are  grown  strange  to  me. 
Who  live  now  in  yonder  houses  ?  once  the  dwell- 
ers were  my  friends." 

"  In  that  house — oh,  new  people ;  I  forget 
their  names — but  rich — in  a  year  or  two,  with 
luck,  they  may  be  exclusives,  and  forget  my 
name.     In  the  other  house,  Carr  Vipont,  still." 

"Vipont;  those  dear  Viponts !  what  of  them 
all  ?  crawl  they  ?  sting  they  ?  Bask  they  in  the 
sun  ?  or  are  they  in  anxious  process  of  a  change 
of  skin?" 

"  Hush,  my  dear  friend ;  no  satire  on  your 
own  connections ;  nothing  so  injudicious.  I  am 
a  Vipont,  too,  and  all  for  the  family  maxim — 
'Vipont  with  Vipont,  and  come  what  may!'" 

"I  stand  rebuked.  But  I  am  no  Vipont.  I 
married,  it  is  true,  into  their  house,  and  they 
married,  ages  ago,  into  mine ;  but  no  drop  in 
the  blood  of  time-servers  flows  through  the  veins 
of  the  last  childless  Darrell.  Fardon.  I  allow 
the  merit  of  the  Vipont  race ;  no  family  more 
excites  my  respectful  interest.  What  of  their 
births,  deaths,  and  marriages?" 

Colonel  MoiiLEY.  "As  to  births,  Carr  has 
just  welcomed  the  birth  of  a  grandson  ;  the  first- 
born of  his  eldest  son  (who  married  last  year  a 
daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Halifax) — a  ]»romising 
young  man,  a  Lord  in  the  Admiralty.      Carr 

has  a  second  son  in  the Hussars ;  has  just 

purchased  his  step :  the  other  boys  are  still  at 
school.  He  has  three  daughters  too,  fine  girls, 
admirably  brought  up  ;  indeed,  now  I  think  of 
it,  the  eldest,  Honoria,  might  suit  you ;  highly 
accomplished — well  read,  interests  herself  in 
politics — a  great  admirer  of  intellect — of  a  very 
serious  turn  of  mind,  too." 

Daerell.  "  A  female  politician  with  a  seri- 
ous turn  of  mind — a  farthing  rushlight  in  a 
London  fog !  Hasten  on  to  subjects  less  gloomy. 
Whose  funeral  Achievement  is  that  yonder?" 

Colonel  Mokley.  "  The  late  Lord  Niton's, 
father  to  Lady  Montfort." 

Dakuell.  •"  Lady  JNIontfort !  Her  father  was 
a  Lyndsay,  and  died  before  the  Flood.  A  del- 
uge, at  least,  has  gone  over  me  and  my  world 
since  I  looked  on  the  face  of  his  widow." 

Colonel  Mokley.  "I  speak  of  the  present 
Lord  Montfort's  wife — the  Earl's.  You  of  the 
poor  Marquis's  —  the  last  Marquis  —  the  mar- 
quisate  is  extinct.  Surely,  whatever  your  wan- 
derings, you  must  have  heard  of  the  death  of 
the  last  Marquis  of  Montfort?" 


"Yes,  I  heard  of  that,"  answered  Darrell,  in 
a  somewhat  husky  and  muttered  voice.  "  So  he 
is  dead,  the  young  man  ! — What  killed  him  ?" 

Colonel  Moeley.  "A  violent  attack  of 
croup — quite  sudden.  He  was  staying  at  Carr's 
at  the  time.  I  suspect  that  Carr  made  him 
talk  I  a  thing  he  was  not  accustomed  to  do : 
deranged  his  system  altogether.  But  don't  let 
us  revive  painful  subjects." 

Daeeell.  "  Was  she  with  him  at  the  time  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Lady  Montfort  ?  — 'No ; 
they  were  very  seldom  together." 

Daeeell.  "  She  is  not  married  again  yet?" 

Colonel  Moeley.  "  No,  but  still  young,  and 
so  beautiful,  she  will  have  many  offers.  I  know 
those  who  are  waiting  to  propose.  Montfort  has 
been  only  dead  eighteen  months — died  just  be- 
fore young  Carr's  marriage.  His  widow  lives, 
in  complete  seclusion,  at  her  jointure-house  near 
Twickenham.  She  has  only  seen  even  me  once 
since  her  loss." 

Darrell.  "  When  was  that  ?" 

Morley'.  "  About  six  or  seven  months  ago ; 
she  asked  after  you  with  much  interest." 

Darrell.  "After  me!" 

Colonel  Morley'.  "  To  be  sure.  Don't  I 
remember  how  constantly  she  and  her  mother 
were  at  your  house?  Is  it  strange  that  she 
should  ask  after  you?  Y'ou  ought  to  know  her 
better — the  most  affectionate,  grateful  charac- 
ter." 

Darrell.  "I  dare  say.  But  at  the  time  you 
refer  to  I  was  too  occupied  to  acquire  much  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  a  young  lady's  character. 
I  should  have  kno^vn  her  mother's  character 
better,  yet  I  mistook  even  that." 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Mrs.  Lyndsay's  charac- 
ter j-ou  might  well  mistake — charming  but  ar- 
tificial :  Lady  Montfort  is  natural.  Indeed,  if 
you  had  not  that  liberal  prejudice  against  wid- 
ows, she  was  the  very  person  I  was  about  to  sug- 
gest to  you." 

Darrell.  "  A  fashionable  beauty,  and  young 
enough  to  be  my  daughter!  Such  is  human 
friendship !  So  the  marquisate  is  extinct,  and 
Sir  James  Vipont,  whom  I  remember  in  the 
House  of  Commons  —  respectable  man — great 
authority  on  cattle — timid,  and  always  saying, 
'■Did  you  read  that  article  in  to-day's  paper?' 
— has  the  estates  and  the  earldom." 

Colonel  Morley.  "Yes.  There  was  some 
fear  of  a  disputed  succession,  but  Sir  James 
made  his  claim  very  clear.  Between  you  and 
me,  the  change  has  been  a  serious  affliction  to 
the  Viponts.  The  late  Lord  was  not  wise,  but 
on  State  occasions  he  looked  his  part  —  tres 
Grand  Seigneur — and  Carr  managed  the  family 
influence  with  admirable  tact.  The  present 
Lord  has  the  habits  of  a  yeoman ;  his  wife  shares 
his  tastes.  He  has  taken  the  management  not 
only  of  the  property,  but  of  its  influence,  out  of 
Carr's  hands,  and  will  make  a  sad  mess  of  it,  for 
he  is  an  impracticable,  obsolete  politician.  He 
will  never  keep  the  family  together — impossible 
— a  sad  thing.  I  remember  how  our  last  muster, 
five  years  ago  next  Christmas,  struck  terror 

into  Lord 's  Cabinet ;  the  mere  report  of 

it  in  the  newspapers  set  all  people  talking  and 
thinking.  The  result  was,  that,  two  weeks 
after,  proper  overtures  were  made  to  Carr — he 
consented  to  assist  the  Ministers — and  the 
Country  was  saved !    Now,  thanks  to  this  stu- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


153 


pid  new  Earl,  in  eighteen  months  we  have  lost ' 
ground  wliich  it  took  at  least  a  century  and  a 
half  to  gain.     Our  votes  are  divided,  our  intlu- 
enoe  frittered  away ;  Montfort  House  is  shut  u]),  I 
and  Carr,  grown  quite  thin,  says  that,  in  the  j 
coming  '  crisis'  a  Cabinet  will  not  only  be  form- 
ed, but  will  also  last— last  time  enough  for  ir-  i 
reparable  mischief — without  a  single  Vipont  iu 
office."  I 

Thus  Colonel  Morley  continued  in  mournful  I 
strain,  Darrell  silent  by  his  side,  till  the  Colonel 
reached  his  own  door.  There,  while  applying 
his  latch-key  to  the  lock,  Alban's  mind  return- 
ed from  the  perils  that  threatened  the  House 
of  Vipont  and  the  Star  of  Brunswick  to  the 
pcttv  cliiims  of  private  friendship.  But  even 
these  last  were  now  blended  with  those  grander 
interests,  due  care  for  which  every  true  patriot 
of  the  House  of  Vipont  imbibed  with  his  mo- 
ther's milk. 

"  Your  appearance  in  town,  my  dear  Darrell, 
is  most  opportune.  It  will  be  an  object  with  the 
whole  family  to  make  the  most  of  you  at  this 
coming  '  ckisis' — I  say  coming,  for  I  believe  it 
nmst  come.  Your  name  is  still  frcslily  remem- 
bered—  your  position  greater  for  having  been 
out  of  all  the  scrapes  of  the  party  the  last  si.v.- 
teen  or  seventeen  years  ;  your  house  should  be 
the  nucleus  of  new  combinations.  Don't  forget 
to  send  Mills  to  me  ;  I  will  engage  your  c/icf 
and  your  house-steward  to-morrow.  I  know 
just  the  men  to  suit  yon.  Y''our  intention  to 
marry,  too,  just  at  this  moment,  is  most  season- 
able ;  it  will  increase  the  family  interest.  I  may 
give  out  that  you  intend  to  marry  ?" 

"Oil,  certainly — cry  it  at  Charing  Cross." 

"  A  club-room  will  do  as  well.  T  beg  ten 
thousanil  pardons  ;  but  peo])lc  will  talk  about 
money  whenever  they  talk  about  marriage.  L 
should  not  like  to  exaggerate  your  fortune — I 
know  it  must  be  very  large,  and  all  at  your  own 
disposal — eh  ?" 

"  Every  shilling." 

"  You  'must  have  saved  a  great  deal  since  you 
retired  into  jirivate  life  ?" 

"  Take  that  for  granted.  Dick  Fairthom  re- 
ceives my  rents,  and  looks  to  my  various  invest- 
ments ;  and  I  take  him  as  my  indisputable  au- 
thority when  I  say  that,  what  with  the  rental  of 
lands  I  purchased  in  my  poor  boy's  lifetime,  and 
the  interest  on  my  much  more  lucrative  money- 
ed capital,  you  may  safely  wiiisjier  to  all  ladies 
likely  to  feel  interest  in  that  ditt'usion  of  knowl- 
edge, '  Thirty-five  thousand  a  year,  and  an  old 
fool.'  " 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  say  an  old  fool,  for  I  am 
the  same  age  as  yourself;  and  if  I  had  £155,000 
a  year  I  would  marry  too." 

"  You  would !  Old  fool !"  said  Darrell,  turn- 
ing away. 


CHAPTER  V. 


IJere.iling  glimpses  of  Guy  DarreU's  past  in  his  envied 
prime.  I >iK  but  deep  enough,  nnd  under  all  earth  runs 
water,  undiT  all  life  runs  grief. 

Alonk  in  the  streets,  the  vivacity  which  had 
characterized  DarreU's  countenance  as  well  as 
his  words,  while  with  his  old  school  friend, 
changed  as  suddenly  and  as  completely  into 
pensive  abstracted  gloom  as  if  he  had  been  act- 


ing a  part,  and  with  the  exit  the  acting  ceased. 
Disinclined  to  return  yet  to  the  solitude  of  his 
home,  he  walked  on,  at  first  mechanically,  in 
the  restless  desire  of  movement,  he  cared  not 
whither.  But,  as  thus  chance-led,  he  found 
himself  in  tlie  centre  of  that  long  straight 
thoroughfare  which  connects  what  once  were 
the  seijaratc  villages  of  Tyburn  and  Holborn, 
something  in  the  desultory  links  of  reverie  sug- 
gested an  object  to  his  devious  feet.  He  had 
but  to  follow  that  street  to  his  right  hand  to 
gain,  in  a  fpiarter  of  an  hour,  a  sight  of  the 
humble  dwelling-house  in  which  he  had  first 
settled  down,  after  his  early  marriage,  to  tho 
arid  labors  of  the  bar.  Hew  ould  go,  now  that, 
wealthy  and  renowned,  he  was  revisiting  the 
long  deserted  focus  of  English  energies,  and  . 
contemplate  the  obscure  abode  in  which  his 
powers  had  been  first  concentred  on  the  pursuit 
of  renown  and  wealth.  Who  among  my  read- 
ers that  may  have  risen  on  the  glittering  steep 
("Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb?"*) 
has  not  been  similarly  attracted  toward  the  roof, 
at  the  craggy  foot  of  the  ascent,  under  which 
golden  dreams  refreshed  his  straining  sinews? 
Somewhat  quickening  his  stejis,  now  that  a 
bourne  was  assigned  to  them,  the  man  growing 
old  in  years,  but,  unhappily  for  himself,  too 
tenacious  of  youth  in  its  grand  discontent,  and 
keen  susceptibilities  to  pain,  strode  noiselessly 
on,  under  the  gaslights,  under  the  stars  ;  gas- 
lights primly  marshaled  at  equidistance  ;  stars 
that  seem,  to  the  naked  eye,  dotted  over  space 
without  symmetry  or  method — Man's  order, 
near  and  finite,  is  so  distinct;  the  Maker's  or- 
der, remote,  infinite,  is  so  beyond  ]\Ian's  com- 
prehension even  of  irhat  is  order! 

Darrell  paused,  hesitating.  He  had  now  gain- 
ed a  spot  in  which  improvement  had  altered  the 
landmarks.  The  superb  broad  thoroughfare  con- 
tinued where  once  it  had  vanished  abrupt  in  a 
labyrinth  of  courts  and  alleys.  But  the  way  was 
not  hard  to  find.  He  turned  a  little  toward  the 
left,  recognizing,  with  admiring  interest,  in  the 
gay  white  would-be  Grecian  edifice,  with  its 
French  ffrille,  bronzed,  gilded,  the  transformed 
Museum,  in  the  still  libraries  of  which  he  had 
sometimes  snatched  a  brief  and  ghostly  respite 
from  books  of  law.  Onward  yet  through  lifeless 
Bloomsbury,  not  so  far  toward  the  last  bounds 
of  Atlas  asthe  desolation  of  Todden  Place,  but 
the  solitude  deepening  as  he  passed.  There 
it  is,  a  quiet  street  indeed!  not  a  soul  on  its 
gloomy  pavements — not  even  a  policeman's  soul. 
Naught  stirring  save  a  stealthy,  profiigate,  good- 
for-nothing  cat,  flitting  fine  through  yon  area 
bars.  Down  that  street  had  he  come,  I  trow, 
with  a  livelier,  quicker  step  the  day  when,  by 
the  strange  good  luck  which  had  uniformly  at- 
tended his  worldly  career  of  honors,  he  had  l)een 
suddenly  called  upon  to  supply  the  place  of  an 
absent  senior,  and,  in  almost  his  earliest  brief, 
the  Courts  of  Westminster  had  recognized  a 
master ;  come,  I  trow,  with  a  livelier  stc]>,  knock- 
ed at  that  very  door  whereat  he  is  halting  now; 
entered  the  room  where  the  young  wife  sat,  and 
at  sight  of  her  querulous  peevish  face,  and  at 
sound  of  her  unsympathizing  languid  voice,  fled 
into  his  cupboard-like  back-parlor— and  mutter- 

•  "Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afarr 

Beattie. 


154 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


ed  "  courage" — courage  to  endure  the  home  he 
had  entered  longing  for  a  voice  which  should 
invite  and  respond  to  a  crv  of  joj. 

How  closed  up,  dumb,  and  blind,  looked  the 
small  mean  house,  with  its  small  mean  door,  its 
small  mean  rayless  windows.  Yet  a  Fame  had 
been  born  there  I  Who  are  the  residents  now? 
Buried  in  slumber,  have  tJtey  anv  "  golden 
dreams  ?"'  Works  therein  any  struggling  brain, 
to  which  the  prosperous  man  might  whisper 
"  courage ;"  or  beats,  there,  any  troubled  heart 
to  which  faithful  woman  should  murmur  "joy?" 
Who  knows  ?  London  is  a  wondrous  poem,  but 
each  page  of  it  is  written  in  a  different  language  ; 
no  lexicon  yet  composed  for  any. 

Back  through  the  street,  under  the  gaslights, 
under  the  stars  went  Guy  Darrell,  more  slow 
and  more  thoughtful.  Did  the  comparison  be-  \ 
tween  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was,  the  mean 
home  just  revisited,  the  stately  home  to  which 
he  would  return,  suggest  thoughts  of  natural 
pride  ?  it  would  not  seem  so ;  no  pride  in  those 
close-shut  lips,  in  that  melancholy  stoop. 

He  came  into  a  quiet  square — still  Blooms- 
bury — and  right  before  him  was  a  large  respect- 
able mansion,  almost  as  large  as  that  one  in 
courtlier  quarters,  to  which  he  loiteringly  de- 
layed the  lone  return.  There,  too,  had  been, 
for  a  time,  the  dwelling  which  was  called  his 
home — there,  when  gold  was  rolling  in  like  a 
tide,  distinction  won,  position  assured,  there — 
not  yet  in  Parliament,  but  foremost  at  the  bar — 
already  pi-essed  by  constituencies,  already  wooed 
by  ministers — there,  still  young  (oh,  luckiest  of 
lawyei-s  I) — there  had  he  moved  his  household 
gods.  Fit  residence  for  a  Prince  of  the  Gown. 
Is  it  when  living  there  that  you  would  envy  the  ! 
prosperous  man  ?  Yes,  the  moment  his  step  <?i«V.-; 
that  door;  but  envy  him  when  he  enters  its 
threshold? — nay,  envy  rather  that  roofless  Sa-  , 
voyard  who  has  crept  under  yonder  portico, 
asleep  with  his  ragged  arm  round  the  cage  of  | 
his  stupid  dormice !  There,  in  that  great  bar-  \ 
ren  drawing-room,  sits  a 

'■Pale  and  elegant  Aspasia." 
Well,  but  the  wife's  face  is  not  querulous  now.  j 
Look  again — anxious,  fearful,  secret,  sly.     Oh,  ' 
that  fine  lady,  a  Vipont  Crooke,  is  not  content- 
ed to  be  wife  to  the  wealthy,  great  Mr.  Darrell. 
What  wants  she  ?  that  he  should  be  spouse  to 
the  fashionable  fine  Mrs.  Darrell?     Pride  in 
him!  not  a  jot  of  it;  such  pride  were  unchris-  j 
tian.     Were  he  proud  of  her,  as  a  Chiistian 
husband  ought  to  be  of  so  elegant  a  wife,  would 
he  still  be  in  Bloomsburr  ?     Envy  him  !  the  high 
gentleman,  so  true  to  his  blood,  all  galled  and 
blistered  by  the  moral  vulgarities  of  a  tuft-hunt- 
ing, toad-eating  mimic  of  the  Lady  Selinas. 
En\-y  him !  well,  why  not  ?     All  women  have  ' 
their  foibles.     Wise  husbands   must  bear  and 
forbear.     Is  that  all  ?  wherefore,  then,  is  her  i 
aspect  so  furtive,  wherefore  on  his  a  wild,  vigi-  i 
lant  sternness  ?     Tut,  what  so  brings  into  cov-  ! 
eted  fashion  a  fiiir  lady  exiled  to  Bloomsbnry 
as  the  marked  adoration  of  a  lord,  not  her  own,  '. 
who  gives  law  to  St.  James's  1     Untempted  by 
passion,  cold  as  ice  to  affection,  if  thawed  to  the 
gush  of  a  sentiment,  secretly  preferring  the  hus- 
band she  chose,  wooed,  and  won,  to  idlers  less 
gifted  even  in  outward  attractions  ;  all  this,  yet 
seeking,  coquetting  for,  the  eckit  of  dishonor  I 
To  elope !     Oh,  no,  too  wary  for  that,  but  to  be 


gazed  at  and  talked  of,  as  the  fair  ]Mrs.  Darrell, 
to  whom  the  Lovelace  of  London  was  so  fondly 
devoted.  Walk  in,  haughty  son  of  the  Dare-all, 
Darest  thou  ask  who  has  just  left  thy  house? 
Darest  thou  ask  what  and  whence  is  the  note 
that  sly  hand  has  secreted?  Darest  thou? — 
perhaps  yes :  what  then  ?  canst  thou  lock  up 
thy  wife  ?  canst  thou  poniard  the  Lovelace  ? 
Lock  up  the  air ;  poniard  all  whose  light  word 
in  St.  James's  can  bring  into  fashion  the  matron 
of  Bloomsburyl  Go,  lawyer,  go,  study  briefs, 
and  be  parchment. 

Agonies — agonies — shot  again  through  Guy 
Darrell's  breast,  as  he  looked  on  that  large,  most 
respectable  house,  and  remembered  his  hourly 
campaign  against  disgrace !  He  has  triumph- 
ed. Death  fights  for  him  :  on  the  very  brink 
of  the  last  scandal,  a  cold,  caught  at  some  Vi- 
pont's  ball,  became  fever ;  and  so  from  that  door 
the  Black  Horses  bore  away  the  Bloomsbury 
Dame,  ere  she  was  yet  —  the  fashion  I  Happy 
in  grief  the  widower  who  may,  with  confiding 
hand,  ransack  the  lost  wife's  harmless  desk,  sure 
that  no  thought  concealed  from  him  in  hfe  will 
rise  accusing  from  the  treasured  papers  I  But 
that  pale,  proud  mourner,  hurrying  the  eye  over 
sweet-scented  billets,  compelled,  in  very  justice 
to  the  dead,  to  convince  himself  that  the  mo- 
ther of  his  children  was  corrupt  only  at  heart — 
that  the  Black  Horses  had  couic  to  the  door  in 
time  —  and,  wretchedly  consoled  by  that  nig- 
gardly conviction,  flinging  into  the  flames  the 
last  flimsy  tatters  on  which  his  honor  (rock-like 
in  his  own  keeping)  had  been  fluttering  to  and 
fro  in  the  charge  of  a  vain,  treacherous  fool ! 
Envy  you  that  mourner  ?  No  !  not  even  in  his 
rel.ease.  ilemory  is  not  nailed  down  in  the  vel- 
vet coffin;  and  to  great  loyal  natures,  less  bit- 
ter is  the  memory  of  the  lost  when  hallowed  by 
tender  sadness,  than  when  coujiled  with  scorn 
and  shame. 

The  wife  is  dead.  Dead,  too,  long  years  ago, 
the  Lothario  I  The  world  has  forgotten  them  ; 
they  fade  out  of  this  very  record  when  ye  turn 
the  page ;  no  influence,  no  bearing  have  they 
on  such  future  events  as  may  mark  what  yet 
rests  of  life  to  Guy  Darrell.  But  as  he  there 
stands  and  gazes  into  space,  the  two  forms  are 
before  his  eye  as  distinct  as  if  living  still.  Slow- 
ly, slowly  he  gazes  them  down  ;  the  false  smiles 
flicker  away  from  their  feeble  lineaments ;  woe 
and  terror  on  their  aspects  —  they  sink,  they 
shrivel,  they  dissolve ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  wreck  cast  back  from  Charybdis. 
Souviens-toi  de  ta  Gabrielle. 

Gut  Darkell  turned  hurriedly  from  the  large 
house  in  the  great  square,  and,  more  and  more 
absorbed  in  reverie,  he  wandered  out  of  his  di- 
rect way  homeward,  clear  and  broad  though  it 
was,  and  did  not  rouse  himself  till  he  felt,  as  it 
were,  that  the  air  had  grown  darker  ;  and  look- 
ing vaguely  round,  he  saw  that  he  had  strayed 
into  a  dim  maze  of  lanes  and  passages.  He 
paused  under  one  of  the  rare  lamp-posts,  gath- 
ering up  his  recollections  of  the  London  he  had 
so  long  quitted,  and  doubtful  for  a  moment  or 
two  which  turn  to  take.     Just  then,  up  from  an 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


i; 


allev  fronting  him  at  right  angles,  came  sullen- 
ly, warily,  a  tall,  sinewy,  ill-boding  tatterdema- 
lion figure,  and  seeing  DarrcU's  face  under  the 
lamp,  "halted  abrupt  at  the  mouth  of  the  narrow 
jiassage  from  which  it  had  emerged  —  a  dark 
form  filling  up  the  dark  aperture.     Does  that  I 
ragged  wayfarer  recognize  a  foe  by  the  imper- 
fect ray  ofthe  lamplight?  or  is  he  a  mere  vul-  j 
rrsLT  footpad,  who  is  doubting  whether  he  should  | 
spring  upon  a  prey  ?     Hostile  his  look — his  ges-  , 
ture— the  sudden"  cowering  down  of  the  strong 
frame,  as  if  for  a  bound  ;  but  still  he  is  irreso-  j 
lute.     What  awes  him  ?     What  awes  the  tiger,  ! 
who  would  obey  his  blood-instinct  without  fear, 
in  his  rush  on  the  Negro — the  Hindoo — but  who 
halts  and  hesitates  at  sight  of  the  white  man —  t 
the  lordly  son  of  Europe  ?     Darreli's  eye  was 
turned  toward  the  dark  passage — toward  the 
dark  figure — carelessly,  neither  recognizing,  nor 
fearing,  nor  defying — carelessly,  as  at  any  harm- 
less object  in  crowded  streets,  and  at  broad  day. 
But  while  that  eye  was  on  him,  the  tatterdema- 
lion halted  ;  and,  indeed,  whatever  his  hostility, 
or  whatever  his  daring,  the  sight  of  Darrell  took 
him  by  so  sudden  a  sui-prise,  that  he  could  not 
at  once  re-collect  his  thoughts,  and  determine 
how  to  approach  the  quiet,  unconscious  man 
who,  in  reach  of  his  spring,  fronted  his  over- 
whelmin#c  physical  strength  with  the  habitual 
air  of  di^Tiified  command.     His  first  impulse 
was  that  of  violence  ;  his  second  impulse  curb- 
ed  the  first.     But  Dan-ell  now  turns  quickly, 
and  walks  straight   on  ;    the  figure  quits  the 
mouth  of  the  passage,  and  follows  with  a  long 
and  noiseless  stride.    It  has  nearly  gained  Dar- 
rell.    With  what  intent  ?     A  fierce  one,  per- 
haps —  for  the  man's  face  is  sinister,  and  his 
state  evidently  desperate — when  there  emerges 
unexpectedly  from  an  ugly-looking  court  or  cul 
lie  sac,  just  between  Dan-ell  and  his  pursuer,  a 
slim,    long-backed,    buttoned-up,   weasel-faced 
policeman.     The  policeman  eyes  the  tatterde- 
malion instinctively,  then  turns  his  glance  to- 
ward the  soUtary,  defenseless  gentleman  in  ad- 
vance, and  walks  on,  keeping  himself  between 
the  two.     The  tatterdemalion  stifles  an  impa- 
tient curse.      Be  his  purpose  force,  be  it  only 
supplication,  be  it  colloquy  of  any  kind,  impos- 
■•  sible  to  fulfill  it  while  that  policeman  is  there. 
True,  that  in  his  powerful  hands  he  could  have 
clutched  that  slim,  long-backed  officer,  and  bro- 
ken him  in  two  as  a  willow  wand.     But  that  of- 
ficer is  the  Personation  of  Law,  and  can  stalk 
through  a  legion  of  tatterdemalions  as  a  ferret 
may  glide  through  a  barn  full  of  rats.     The 
prowler  feels  he  is  suspected.     L'nknown  as  yet 
to  the  London  police,  he  has  no  desire  to  invite 
their  scrutiny.     He  crosses  the  way ;    he  falls 
back ;    he  follows  from  afar.     The  policeman 
may  yet  turn  away  before  the  safer  streets  of 
the  metropolis  be  gained.     No ;  the  cursed  In- 
carnation of  Law,  with  eyes  in  its  slim  back, 
continues  its  slow  stride  at  the  heels  of  the  un- 
suspicious Darrell.     The  more  solitary  defiles 
are  alreadv  passed — now  that  dim  lane,  with  its 
dead  wall  on  one  side.    By  the  dead  wall  skulks 
the  prowler;  on  the  other  side  still  walks  The 
Law.     Now — alas  for  the  prowler  I — shine  out 
the  thoroughfares,  no  longer  dim  nor  deserted 
— Leicester  Square,  the  Haymarket,  Pall  Mall, 
Carlton  Gardens ;  Darrell  is  at  his  door.     The 
policeman  turns  sharply  round.     There,  at  the 


comer  near  the  learned  Club-house,  halts  the 
tatterdemalion.  Toward  the  tatterdemalion  the 
policeman  now  advances  quickly.  The  tatter- 
demalion is  quicker  still  —  fled  like  a  guilty 
thought. 

Back — back — back  into  that  maze  of  passages 
and  courts — back  to  the  mouth  of  that  black  al- 
ley. There  he  halts  again.  Look  at  him.  He 
has  arrived  in  London  but  that  very  night,  aft- 
er an  absence  of  more  than  four  years.  He  has 
arrived  from  the  sea-side  on  foot ;  see,  his  shoes 
are  worn  into  holes.  He  has  not  yet  found  a 
shelter  for  the  night.  He  had  been  directed  to- 
ward that  quarter,  thronged  with  adventurers, 
native  and  foreign,  for  a  shelter,  safe,  if  squalid. 
It  is  somewhere  near  that  court,  at  the  mouth 
of  which  he  stands.  He  looks  i-ound,  the  po- 
liceman is  bafrled,  the  coast  clear.  He  steals 
forth,  and  pauses  under  the  same  gaslight  as 
that  under  which  Guy  Darrell  had  paused  be- 
fore— under  the  same  gaslight,  under  the  same 
stars.  From  some  recess  in  his  rags  he  draws 
forth  a  large,  distained,  distended  pocket-book 
—  last  relic  of  sprucer  days — leather  of  dainty 
morocco,  once  elaborately  tooled,  patent  springs, 
fairy  lock,  fit  receptacle  for  bank-notes,  billets- 
doux,  memoranda  of  debts  of  honor,  or  jileasur- 
able  engagements.  Now  how  worn,  tarnished, 
greasy,  rapscallion-like,  the  costly  bauble  !  Fill- 
ed with  what  motley,  unlovable  contents — stalp 
pawn-tickets  of  foreign  inonts  de  jtiete,  pledges 
never  henceforth  to  be  redeemed ;  scrawls  by 
villainous  hands  in  thievish  hieroglyphics  ;  ugly 
implements  replacing  the  malachite  penknife, 
the  golden  tooth-pick,  the  jeweled  pencil-case, 
once  so  neatly  set  within  their  satin  lappets. 
L'gly  implements,  indeed — a  file,  a  gimlet,  load- 
ed dice.  Pell-mell,  with  such  more  hideous  and 
recent  contents,  dishonored  evidences  of  gaudi- 
er summer  life — locks  of  ladies'  hair,  love-notes 
treasured  mechanically,  not  from  amorous  sen- 
timent, but  perhaps  from  some  vague  idea  that 
they  might  be  of  use  if  those  who  gave  the 
locks  or  wrote  the  notes  should  be  raised  in  for- 
tune, and  could  buy  back  the  memorials  of 
shame.  Diving  amidst  these  miscellaneous 
documents  and  treasures,  the  j)rowler's  hand 
rested  on  some  old  letters  in  clerk-like  fair  ca- 
ligraphy,  tied  round  with  a  dirty  string,  and  on 
them,  in  another  and  fresher  writing,  a  scrap 
that  contained  an  address — "  tSamucl  Adoli)hus 
Poole,  Esq.,-  Alhambra  Villa,  Regent's  Park." 
"  To-morrow,  Nix  my  Dolly ;  to-morrow,"  mut- 
tered the  tatterdemalion  ;  "but to-night — plague 
on  it,  where  is  the  other  blackguard's  direction  ? 
Ah,  here — "  And  he  extracted  from  the  thiev- 
ish scrawls  a  peadiarlj  thievish-looking  hiero- 
glvph.  Now,  as  he  lifts  it  up  to  read  by  the  gas- 
light, survey  him  well.  Do  you  not  know  him? 
Is°it  possible?  What!  the"  brilliant  sharper! 
The  ruffian  exquisite  !  Jasper  Losely !  Can  it 
be  ?  Once  before,  in  the  fields  of  Fawlcy,  we 
beheld  him  out  of  elbows,  seedy,  shabby,  ragged. 
But  then  it  was  the  decay  of"  a  foppish  spend- 
thrift—  clothes  distained,"  ill-assorted,  yet  still 
of  fine  cloth;  shoes  in  holes,  yet  still  pearl-col- 
ored brodequins.  But  now  it  is  the  decay  of  no 
foppish  spendthrift  ;  the  rags  arc  not  of  fine 
'  cloth  ;  the  tattered  shoes  are  not  brodequins. 
j  The  man  has  fallen  far  below  the  polifer  grades 
j  of  knavery,  in  which  the  sharper  aflects  the 
i  beau.     Aiid  the  countenance,  as  we  last  saw  it, 


15G 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


if  it  had  lost  mncli  of  its  earlier  beauty,  was  still 
incontestably  handsome.  What  with  vigor,  and 
health,  and  animal  spirits,  then  on  the  aspect 
still  lingered  light ;  nou\  from  corruption,  the 
light  itself  was  gone.  In  that  Herculean  con- 
stitution excess  of  all  kinds  had  at  length  forced 
its  ravage,  and  the  ravage  was  \-isible  in  the  ru- 
ined face.  The  once  sparkling  eye  was  dull  and 
bloodshot.  The  colors  of  the  cheek,  once  clear 
and  vivid,  to  which  fiery  diink  had  only  sent  the 
blood  in  a  warmer  glow,  were  now  of  a  leaden 
dullness,  relieved  but  by  broken  streaks  of  angiy 
red — like  gleams  of  flame  struggling  through 
gathered  smoke.  The  profile,  once  sharp  and 
delicate  like  Apollo's,  was  now  confused  in  its 
swollen  outline  ;  a  few  years  more,  and  it  would 
be  gross  as  that  of  Silenus — the  nostrils,  dis- 
tended with  incipient  carbuncles,  which  betray 
the  gnawing  fang  that  alcohol  fastens  into  the 
liver.  Evil  passions  had  destroyed  the  outline 
of  the  once  beautiful  lips,  arched  as  a  Cupid's 
bow.  The  sideling,  lowering,  villainous  ex- 1 
pression  which  had  formerly  been  but  occasion-  ' 
al,  was  now  habitual  and  heightened.  It  was 
the  look  of  the  bison  before  it  gores.  It  is  true, 
however,  that  even  yet  on  the  countenance  there 
lingered  the  trace  of  that  lavish  favor  bestowed 
on  it  by  nature.  An  artist  would  still  have  said, 
"  How  handsome  that  ruggamufiin  must  have 
been  I"  And  true  is  it,  also,  that  there  was  yet  i 
that  about  the  bearing  of  the  man  which  con- 
trasted his  squalor,  and  seemed  to  say  that  he 
had  not  been  born  to  wear  rags,  and  loiter  at  [ 
midnight  among  the  haunts  of  thieves.  Nay,  I 
am  not  sui-e  that  you  would  have  been  as  incred-  : 
ulous  now,  if  told  that  the  wild  outlaw  before  i 
you  had  some  claim  by  birth  or  by  nurture  to  ' 
the  rank  of  gentleman,  as  you  would  had  yoii 
seen  the  gay  spendthrift  in  his  gaudy  day.  For 
then  he  seemed  below,  and  now  he  seemed 
above,  the  grade  in  which  he  took  place.  And 
all  this  made  his  aspect  yet  more  sinister,  and 
the  impression  that  he  was  dangerous  yet  more 
profound.  Muscular  strength  often  remains  to 
a  powerful  frame  long  after  the  constitution  is 
undermined,  and  Jasper's  Losely's  frame  was 
still  that  of  a  formidable  athlete ;  nay,  its 
strength  was  yet  more  apparent  now  that  the 
shoulders  and  limbs  had  increased  in  bulk,  than 
when  it  was  half-disguised  in  the  lissom  sym- 
metry of  exquisite  proportion — less  active,  less 
supple,  less  capable  of  endurance,  but  with  more 
crushing  weight  in  its  rush  or  its  blow.  It  was 
the  figure  in  which  brute  force  seems  so  to  pre- 
dominate that  in  a  savage  state  it  would  have 
worn  a  crown — the  figure  which  secures  com- 
mand and  authority  in  all  societies  where  force 
alone  gives  the  law.  Thus,  under  the  gaslight 
and  under  the  stars,  stood  the  terrible  animal — 
a  strong  man  imbruted — "  Souviens-toi  l»e  ta 
Gabhielle."  There,  still  uneffaced,  though  the 
gold-threads  are  all  tarnished  and  ragged,  are 
the  ominous  words  on  the  silk  of  the  she-devil's 
love-token !  But  Jasper  has  now  inspected  the 
direction  on  the  paper  he  held  to  the  lamp- 
light, and,  satisfying  himself  that  he  was  in  the 
right  quarter,  restored  the  paper  to  the  bulky, 
distended  pocket-book,  and  walked  sullenly  on 
toward  the  court  from  which  had  emerged  the 
policeman  who  had  crossed  his  prowling  chase. 
"  It  is  tlie  most  infernal  shame,"  said  Losely, 
between  his  grinded  teeth,  "  that  I  should  be 


driven  to  these  wretched  dens  for  a  lodging, 
while  that  man  who  ought  to  feel  bound  to  main- 
tain me  should  be  rolling  in  wealth,  and  cotton- 
ed up  in  a  palace.  But  he  shall  fork  out.  So- 
phy must  be  hunted  up.  I  will  clothe  her  in 
rags  like  these.  She  shall  sit  at  his  street-door. 
I  will  shame  the  miserly  hunks.  But  how  track 
the  girl  ?  Have  I  no  other  hold  over  him  ?  Can 
I  send  Dolly  Poole  to  him?  How  addled  my 
brains  are! — want  of  food — want  of  sleep.  Is 
this  the  place  ?     Peuh!" 

Thus  murmuring  he  now  reached  the  arch  of 
the  court,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  its  gloom. 
A  few  strides,  and  he  came  into  a  square  open 
space,  only  lighted  by  the  skies.  A  house,  larg- 
er than  the  rest,  which  were  of  the  meanest  or- 
der, stood  somewhat  back,  occupying  nearly  one 
side  of  the  quadrangle — old,  dingy,  dilapidated. 
At  the  door  of  this  house  stood  another  man, 
applying  his  latch-key  to  the  lock.  As  Losely 
approached,  the  man  turned  quickly,  half  in  fear, 
half  in  menace — a  small,  very  thin,  impish-look- 
ing man,  with  peculiarly  restless  features  that 
seemed  trying  to  run  away  from  his  face.  Thin 
as  he  was,  he  looked  all  skin  and  no  bones — a 
gobhn  of  a  man  whom  it  would  not  astonish  you 
to  hear  could  creep  through  a  keyhole.  Seem- 
ing still  more  shadowy  and  impalpable  by  his 
slight,  thin,  sable  dress,  not  of  cloth,  but  a  sort 
of  stuff  like  alpaca.  Xor  was  that  dress  ragged, 
nor,  as  seen  but  in  starlight,  did  it  look  worn  or 
shabby  ;  still  you  had  but  to  glance  at  the  creat- 
ure to  feel  that  it  was  a  child  in  the  same  Fam- 
ily of  Xight  as  the  ragged  felon  that  towered  by 
its  side.  The  two  outlaws  stared  at  each  other. 
"Cutts  I"  said  Losely,  in  the  old  rollicking  voice, 
but  in  a  hoarser,  rougher  key — "  Cutts,  my  boy, 
here  I  am,  welcome  me !" 

"  What !  General  Jas.  I"  retnrned  Cutts,  in  a 
tone  which  was  not  without  a  certain  respectful 
awe,  and  then  proceeded  to  pour  out  a  series  of 
questions  in  a  mysterious  language,  which  may 
be  thus  translated  and  abridged :  "  How  Icng 
have  you  been  in  England?  how  has  it  fared 
with  you?  you  seem  very  badly  oft?  coming 
here  to  hide  ?  nothing  very  bad,  I  hope  ?  what 
is  it?" 

Jasper  answered  in  the  same  language,  though 
with  less  practiced  mastery  of  it — and  with  that 
constitutional  levity  which,  whatever  the  time  or 
circumstance,  occasionally  gave  a  strange  sort 
of  wit,  or  queer,  uncanny,  devd-me-care  vein  of 
drollery,  to  his  modes  of  expression. 

"Three  months  of  the  worst  luck  man  ever 
had — a  row  vrith.  the  gens-iTarmes — long  story 
— three  of  our  pals  seized — affair  of  the  galleys 
for  them,  I  suspect — French  frogs  can't  seize 
me — fricasseed  one  or  two  of  them — broke  away 
— crossed  the  countr}- — reached  the  coast — found 
an  honest  smuggler — landed  ofi"  Sussex  with  a 
few  other  kegs  of  brandy — remembered  you — 
preserved  the  address  you  gave  me — and  conde- 
scend to  this  rat-hole  for  a  night  or  so.  Let  me 
in — knock  up  somebody — break  open  the  larder 
— I  want  to  eat — I  am  famished — I  should  have 
eaten  you  by  this  time,  only  there's  nothing  on 
your  bones." 

The  little  man  opened  the  door — a  passage 
black  as  Erebus.  "  Give  me  your  hand.  Gener- 
al." Jasper  was  led  through  the  pitchy  gloom 
for  a  few  yards ;  then  the  guide  found  a  gas- 
cock,  and  the  place  broke  suddenly  into  light. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


157 


A  dirty  narrow  stair-case  on  one  side ;  facing  it, 
a  sort  "of  lobby,  in  which  an  open  door  showed  a 
long,  sanded  parlor,  like  that  in  public-houses — 
several  tables,  benches,  the  walls  whitewashed, 
but  adorned  with  sundry  ingenious  designs  made 
by  charcoal  or  the  smoked  ends  of  clay-pipes. 
A  strong  smell  of  stale  tobacco  and  of  gin  and 
rum.  Another  gaslight,  swinging  from  the  cen- 
tre of  the  ceiling,  sprang  into  light  as  Cutts 
touched  the  tap-cock. 

'« Wait  here, "  said  the  guide.  "  I  will  go  and 
get  you  some  supper." 

"And  some  brandy,"  said  Jasper. 
"  Of  course." 

The  bravo  threw  himself  at  length  on  one  of 
the  tables,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  moaned.  His 
vast  strength  had  become  acquainted  with  phys- 
ical pain.  In  its  stout  knots  and  fibres,  aches 
and  sharp  twinges,  the  dragon-teeth  of  which 
had  been  sown  years  ago  in  revels  or  brawls, 
which  then  seemed  to  bring  but  innocuous  joy 
and  easy  triumph,  now  began  to  gnaw  and  grind. 
But  when  Cutts  reappeared  with  coarse  viands 
and  the  brandy-bottle,  Jasper  shook  off  the  sense 
of  pain,  as  does  a  wounded  wild  beast  that  can 
still  devour ;  and  after  regaling  fast  and  raven- 
ously, he  emptied  half  the  bottle  at  a  draught, 
and  felt  himself  restored  and  fresh. 

"  Shall  you  fling  yourself  among  the  swell  fel- 
lows who  iiold  their  club  here.  General?"  asked 
Cutts ;  "  'tis  a  bad  trade,  every  year  it  gets  worse. 
Or  have  you  not  some  higher  game  in  your 
eye  ?" 

"  I  have  higher  game  in  my  eye.  One  bird  I 
marked  down  this  very  night.  But  that  may  be 
slow  work,  and  uncertain.  I  have  in  this  pocket- 
book  a  bank  to  draw  upon  meanwhile." 

"How? — forged  French  billets  de  banque — 
dangerous." 

"Pooh !  better  than  that ;  letters  which  prove 
theft  against  a  respectable  rich  man." 
"Ah,  you  expect  hush-money?" 
"  Exactly  so.     I  have  good  friends  in  Lon- 
don." 

"Among  them,  I  suppose,  that  affectionate 
'  adopted  mother'  who  would  have  kept  you  in 
such  order." 

"Thousand  thundei-s!  I  hope  not.  I  am  not 
a  superstitious  man,  but  I  fear  that  woman  as  if 
she  were  a  witch,  and  I  believe  she  is  one.  You 
remember  black  Jean,  whom  we  called  Sans  cu- 
lotte.  He  would  have  filled  a  church-yard  with 
his  own  brats  for  a  five-franc  piece ;  but  he 
would  not  have  crossed  a  church-yard  alone  at 
night  for  a  thousand  Naps.  Well,  that  woman 
to  me  is  what  a  church-yard  was  to  black  Jean. 
No ;  if  she  is  in  London,  I  have  but  to  go  to  her 
house  and  say,  '  Food,  shelter,  money ;'  and  I 
would  rather  ask  Jack  Ketch  for  a  rope." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it,  General?  She 
does  not  beat  you — she  is  not  your  wife.  I  have 
seen  many  a  stout  fellow,  who  would  stand  fire 
without  blinking,  show  the  white  feather  at  a 
scold's  tongue.  But  then  he  must  be  spliced  to 
her — " 

"Cutts,  that  grifiin  does  not  scold  —  she 
preaches.  She  wants  to  make  me  spooney, 
Cutts — she  talks  of  my  young  days,  Cutts — she 
wants  to  blight  me  into  what  she  calls  an  hon- 
est man,  Cutts  ; — the  virtuous  dodge !  She  snubs 
and  cows  me,  and  frightens  me  out  of  my  wits, 
Catts.     For  I  do  believe  that  the  witch  is  de- 


termined to  have  me,  body  and  soul,  and  to 
marry  me  some  day  in  spite  of  myself,  Cutts. 
And  if  ever  you  see  me  about  to  be  clutched  in 
those  horrible  paws,  poison  me  with  ratsbane, 
or  knock  me  on  the  head,  Cutts." 

The  little  man  laughed  a  little  laugh,  sharp 
and  eldritch,  at  the  strange  cowardice  of  the 
stalwart  dare-devil.  But  Jasper  did  hot  echo  the 
laugh. 

"Hush  !"  he  said,  timidly,  "and  let  me  have 
a  bed,  if  you  can ;  I  have  not  slept  in  one  for  a 
week,  and  my  nerves  are  shaky." 

The  imp  lighted  a  candle-end  at  the  gas-lamp, 
and  conducted  Losely  up  the  stairs  to  his  o^^^l 
sleeping-room,  which  was  less  comfortless  than 
might  be  supposed.  He  resigned  his  bed  to  the 
wanderer,  who  flung  himself  on  it,  rags  and  all. 
But  sleep  was  no  more  at  his  command  than  it 
is  at  a  king's. 

"  Why  the did  you  talk  of  that  witch?" 

he  cried,  jieevishly,  to  Cutts,  who  was  composing 
himself  to  rest  on  the  floor.  "  I  swear  I  fsmcy 
I  feel  her  sitting  on  my  chest  like  a  nightmare." 
He  turned  with  a  vehemence  which  shook  the 
walls,  and  wrapped  the  coverlid  round  him, 
plunging  his  head  into  its  folds.  Strange  though 
it  seem  to  the  novice  in  human  nature — to  Jas- 
per Losely  the  woman  who  had  so  long  lived  but 
for  one  object — viz.,  to  save  him  from  the  gibbet, 
was  as  his  evil  genius,  his  haunting  fiend.  He 
had  conceived  a  prof^ound  terror  of  her,  from 
the  moment  he  perceived  that  she  was  resolutely 
bent  upon  making  him  honest.  He  had  broken 
from  her  years  ago  —  fled  —  resumed  his  evil 
courses — hid  himself  from  her — in  vain.  Wher- 
ever he  went,  there  went  she.  He  might  baftle 
the  police,  not  her.  Hunger  had  often  forced 
him  to  accept  her  aid.  As  soon  as  he  received 
it,  he  hid  from  her  again,  burying  himself  deeper 
and  deeper  in  the  mud,  like  a  persecuted  tench. 
He  associated  her  idea  with  all  the  ill-luck  that 
had  befallen  him.  Several  times  some  villainous 
scheme  on  which  he  had  counted  to  make  his 
fortune  had  been  baffled  in  the  most  mysteri- 
ous way ;  and  just  when  baffled — and  there 
seemed  no  choice  but  to  cut  his  own  throat  or 
some  one  else's — up  turned  grim  Arabella  Crane, 
in  the  iron-gray  go^Ti,  and  with  the  iron-gray 
ringlets — hatefully,  awfully  beneficent — offering 
food,  shelter,  gold — and  some  demoniacal,  hon- 
orable work.  Often  had  he  been  in  imminent 
peril  from  watchful  law  or  treacherous  accom- 
plice. She  had  warned  and  saved  him  as  she 
had  saved  him  from  the  fell  Gabrielle  Desmarets, 
who,  unable  to  bear  the  sentence  of  penal  servi- 
tude, after  a  long  process  defended  with  aston- 
ishing skill,  and  enlisting  the  romantic  sympa- 
thies of  young  France,  had  contrived  to  escape 
into  another  -(TOrld  by  means  of  a  subtle  poison 
concealed  about  her  distinguee  person,  and  which 
she  had  prepared  years  ago  with  her  own  blood- 
less hands,  and  no  doubt  scientifically  tested  its 
eft'ect  on  others.  The  cobra  capella  is  gone  at 
last!  ''  Souviens-toi  de  ta  Gabrielle"  O  Jasper 
j  Losely !  But  why  Arabella  Crane  should  thus 
I  continue  to  watch  over  him  whom  she  no  longer 
professed  to  love— how  she  should  thus  have  ac- 
quired the  gift  of  ubiquity  and  the  power  to  save 
him— Jasp'er  Losely  could  not  conjecture.  The 
whole  thing  seexne"d  to  him  weird  and  super- 
natural. Most  truly  did  he  say  that  she  had 
cowed  him.    He  had  often  longed  to  strangle 


158 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


her ;  when  absent  from  her,  had  often  resolved 
Upon  that  act  of  gratitude.  The  moment  he 
came  in  sight  of  her  stern,  haggard  face — her 
piercing  lurid  eves — the  moment  he  heard  her 
slow,  dry  voice  in  some  such  sentences  as  these, 
"Again  you  come  to  me  in  your  trouble,  and 
ever  shall.  Am  I  not  still  as  your  mother,  but 
with  a  wife's  fidelity,  till  death  us  do  part. 
There  is  the  portrait  of  what  you  were — look  at 
it,  Jasper.  Xow  turn  to  the  glass — see  what 
you  are.  Think  of  the  fate  of  Gabrielle  Des- 
marets  I  But  for  me  what,  long  since,  had  been 
your  own  ?  But  I  will  save  you — I  have  sworn 
it.  You  shall  be  wax  in  these  hands  at  last ;" 
the  moment  that  voice  thus  claimed  and  insisted 
on  redeeming  him,  the  ruflnan  felt  a  cold  shud- 
der— his  courage  oozed — he  could  no  more  have 
nerved  his  arm  against  her  than  a  Thug  would 
have  lifted  his  against  the  dire  goddess  of  his 
murderous  superstition.  Jasper  could  not  resist 
a  belief  that  the  life  of  this  dreadful  protectress 
was,  somehow  or  other,  made  essential  to  his — 
that,  were  she  to  die,  he  should  perish  in  some 
ghastly  and  preternatural  expiation.  But  for 
the  last  few  months  he  had,  at  length,  esca{^d 
from  her — diving  so  low,  so  deep  into  the  mud, 
that  even  her  net  could  not  mesh  him.  Hence, 
perhaps,  the  imminence  of  the  perils  from  which 
he  had  so  narrowly  escaped — hence  the  utter- 
ness  of  his  present  destitution.  But  man,  how- 
ever vile,  whatever  his  peril,  whatever  his  desti- 
tution, was  born  free,  and  loves  liberty.  Liberty 
to  go  to  Satan  in  his  own  way  was  to  Jasper 
Losely  a  supreme  blessing  compared  to  that  be- 
nignant compassionate  espionaye,  with  its  relent- 
less eye  and  restraining  hand.  Alas  arid  alas ! 
deem  not  this  perversity  unnatural  in  that  head- 
strong self-destroyer  I  How  many  are  there 
whom  not  a  grim  hard-featured  Arabella  Crane, 
but  the  long-suflFering,  dinne,  omniscient,  gen- 
tle Providence  itself,  seeks  to  warn,  to  aid,  to 
save — and  is  shunned,  and  loathed,  and  fled 
from,  as  if  it  were  an  e\-il  genius  I  How  manv 
are  there  who  fear  nothing  so  much  as  tlie  being 
made  good  in  spite  of  themselves  ? — how  many  ? 
— who  can  count  them? 


CHAPTER  VII. 
The  public  man  needs  but  o:ii!  patron — vi/^,  the  lucky 

MOMENT. 

"At  his  house  in  Carlton  Gardens,  Guy  Dar- 
rell,  Esq.,  for  the  season." 

Simple  insertion  in  the  pompous  list  of  Fash- 
ionable Arrivals !  —  the  name  of  a  plain  com- 
moner imbedded  in  the  amber  which  glitters 
with  so  many  coronets  and  stars!  Yet  such  is 
England,  with  all  its  veneration  for  titles,  that 
the  eyes  of  the  public  passed  indifferently  over 
the  rest  of  that  chronicle  of  illustrious  "where- 
abouts," to  rest  with  interest,  curiosity,  specu- 
lation, on  the  unemblazoncd  name  which  but  a 
day  before  had  seemed  slipped  out  of  date — ob- 
solete as  that  of  an  actor  who  figures  no  more 
in  play-bills.  Unquestionably  the  sensation  ex- 
cited was  due,  in  much,  to  tiie  "  ambiguous 
voices"  which  Colonel  Morley  had  disseminated 
throughout  the  genial  atmosphere  of  Club-rooms. 
"Arrived  in  London  for  the  season  I"  he,  the 
orator,  once  so  famous,  long  so  forgotten,  who 


had  been  out  of  the  London  world  for  the  space 
of  more  than  half  a  generation.  "Why  now? 
why  for  the  season?"  quoth  the  Colonel.  "He 
is  still  in  the  prime  of  life  as  a  public  man,  and 
— a  CRISIS  is  at  hand  I" 

But  that  which  gave  weight  and  significance 
to  Alban  Morley's  hints,  was  the  report  in  the 
newspapers  of  Guy  Darrell's  visit  to  his  old  con- 
stituents, and  of  the  short  speech  he  had  ad- 
dressed to  them,  to  which  he  had  so  slightly  re- 
ferred in  his  conversation  with  Alban.  True, 
the  speech  teas  short :  true,  it  touched  but  little 
on  passing  topics  of  political  interest  —  rather 
alluding,  with  modesty  and  terseness,  to  the  con- 
tests and  victories  of  a  former  day.  But  still, 
in  the  few  words  there  was  the  swell  of  the  old 
clarion — the  wind  of  the  Paladin's  horn  which 
woke  Fontarabian  echoes. 

It  is  astonishing  how  capricious,  how  sudden 
are  the  changes  in  value  of  a  public  man.  All 
depends  upon  whether  the  public  want,  or  be- 
lieve they  want,  the  man ;  and  that  is  a  ques- 
tion upon  which  the  pubUc  do  not  know  their 
own  minds  a  week  before ;  nor  do  they  always 
keep  in  the  same  mind,  when  made  up,  for  a 
week  together.  If  they  do  not  want  a  man — if 
he  do  not  hit  the  taste,  nor  respond  to  the  exi- 
gency of  the  time — whatever  his  eloquence,  his 
abilities,  his  virtues,  they  push  him  aside,  or  cry 
him  down.  Is  he  wanted? — does  the  min-or  of 
the  moment  reflect  his  image  ? — that  mirror  is 
an  intense  magnifier;  his  proportions  swell — 
they  become  gigantic.  At  that  moment  the  pub- 
lic wanted  some  man ;  and  the  instant  the  hint 
v.-as  given,  "Why  not  Guy  Darrell?"  Guy  Dar- 
rell  was  seized  upon  as  the  man  wanted.  It  was 
one  of  those  times  in  our  Pari  iamentaiy  history 
when  the  public  are  out  of  temper  with  all  par- 
ties— when  recognized  leaders  have  contrived  to 
damage  themselves — when  a  Cabinet  is  shak- 
ing, and  the  public  neither  care  to  destroy  nor  to 
keep  it ;  a  time,  too,  when  the  country  seemed 
in  some  danger,  and  when,  mere  men  of  busi- 
ness held  unequal  to  the  emergency,  whatever 
name  suggested  associations  of  vigor,  eloquence, 
genius,  rose  to  a  premium  above  its  market- 
price  in  times  of  tranquillity-  and  tape.  With- 
out effort  of  his  own — by  the  mere  force  of  the 
under-current — Guy  Darrell  was  thrown  up  from 
oblivion  into  note.  He  could  not  form  a  cabinet 
— certainly  not ;  but  he  might  help  to  bring  a 
cabinet  together,  reconcile  jarring  elements,  ad- 
just disputed  questions,  take  in  such  government 
some  high  place,  influence  its  councils,  and  de- 

i  light  a  public  weary  of  the  oratory  of  the  day 
with  the  eloquence  of  a  former  race.  For  the 
public  is  ever  a  laudator  temporis  acti,  and  what- 
ever the  authors  or  the  orators  immediately  be- 
fore it,  were  those  authors  and  orators  Homers 
and  Ciceros,  would  still  shake   a  disparaging 

j  head,  and  talk  of  these  degenerate  days,  as  Ho- 
mer himself  talked  ages  before  Leonidas  stood 
in  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae,  or  Miltiades  routed 
Asian  armaments  at  Marathon.     Guy  Darrell 

;  belonged  to  a  former  race.  The  fathers  of  those 
young  Members  rising  now  into  fame,  had  quot- 

'  ed  to  their  sons  his  pithy  sentences,  his  virid  im- 
ages ;  and  added,  as  Fox  added  when  quoting 
Burke,  "  but  you  should  have  heard  and  seen 
the  man!" 

Heard  and  seen  the  man!  But  there  he  was 
again ! — come  up  as  from  a  grave — come  up  to 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


159 


the  public  just  when  such  a  man  was  wanted. 
Wanted  how  ?  wanted  where  ?  Oh.  somehow 
and  somewhere  I  There  he  is  I  make  the  most 
of  him. 

The  house  in  Carlton  Gardens  is  prepared, 
the  establishment  mounted.  Thither  flock  all 
the  Viponts — nor  they  alone ;  all  the  chiefs  of 
all  parties — nor  they  alone  ;  all  the  notabilities 
of  our  grand  metropolis.  Guy  Darrell  might  be 
startled  at  his  own  position ;  but  he  compre- 
hended its  nature,  and  it  did  not  discompose 
his  ner^•es.  He  knew  public  life  well  enough 
to  be  aware  how  much  the  popular  favor  is  the 
creature  of  an  accident.  By  chance  he  had 
nicked  the  time ;  had  he  thus  come  to  town  the 
season  before,  he  might  have  continued  obscure ; 
a  man  like  Guy  Darrell  not  being  wanted  then. 
Whether  with  or  without  design,  his  bearing 
confirmed  and  extended  the  effect  produced  by 
his  reappearance.  Gracious,  but  modestly  re- 
served—  he  spoke  little,  listened  beautifully. 
Many  of  the  questions  which  agitated  all  around 
him  had  grown  up  into  importance  since  his  dav 
of  action  ;  nor  in  his  retirement  had  he  traced 
their  progressive  development,  with  their  change- 
ful effects  upon  men  and  parties.  But  a  man 
who  has  once  gone  deeply  into  practical  politics 
might  sleep  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius  for  twen- 
ty years,  and  find,  on  waking,  veri'  httle  to  learn. 
Darrell  regained  the  level  of  the  day,  and  seized 
upon  all  the  strong  points  on  which  men  were 
divided,  whh  the  rapidity  of  a  prompt  and  com- 
prehensive intellect — his  judgment  perhaps  the 
clearer  from  the  freshness  oi'  long  repose,  and 
the  composure  of  dispassionate  survey.  "\\*hen 
partisans  ^Tangled  as  to  what  should  have  been 
done,  Darrell  was  silent ;  when  they  asked  what 
should  be  done,  out  came  one  of  his  terse  sen- 
tences, and  a  knot  was  cut.  Meanwhile  it  is 
true  this  man,  round  whom  expectations  group- 
ed and  rumor  buzzed,  was  in  neither  House  of 
Parliament ;  but  that  was  rather  a  delay  to  his 
energies  than  a  detriment  to  his  consequence. 
Important  constituencies,  anticipating  a  vacan- 
cy, were  already  on  the  look-out  for  him ;  a 
smaller  constituency,  in  the  interim,  CarrYipont 
undei-took  to  procure  him  any  day.  There  was 
always  a  Vipont  ready  to  accept  something — 
even  the  Chiltem  Hundreds.  But  Darrell,  not 
without  reason,  demurred  at  re-entering  the 
House  of  Commons  after  an  absence  of  seven- 
teen years.  He  had  left  it  with  one  of  those 
rare  reputations  which  no  wise  man  likes  rash- 
ly to  imperih  The  Yiponts  sighed.  He  would 
certainly  be  more  useful  in  the  Commons  than 
the  Lords,  but  still  in  the  Lords  he  would  be  of 
great  use.  They  would  want  a  debating  lord, 
perhaps  a  lord  acquainted  with  law  in  the  com- 
ing CRISIS ; — if  he  preferred  the  peerage  ?  Dar- 
rell demurred  still.  The  man's  modesty  was 
insufferable — his  style  of  speaking  might  not 
suit  that  august  assembly ;  and  as  to  law — he 
could  never  now  be  a  law  lord — he  should  be 
but  a  ci-devant  advocate,  affecting  the  part  of  a 
judicial  amateur. 

In  short,  without  declining  to  re-enter  public 
life,  seeming,  on  the  contrary,  to  resume  all  his 
interest  in  it,  Darrell  contrived  with  admirable 
dexterity  to  elude  for  the  present  all  overtures 
pressed  upon  hira.  and  even  to  convince  his  ad- 
mirers, not  only  of  his  wisdom  but  of  his  patri- 
otism in  that  reticence.     For  certainly  he  thus 


managed  to  exercise  a  very  considerable  influ- 
ence— his  advice  was  more  sought,  his  sugges- 
tions more  heeded,  and  his  power  in  reconciling 
certain  rival  jealousies  was  perhaps  greater  than 
would  have  been  the  case  if  he  had  actually  en- 
tered either  House  of  Parliament,  and  thrown 
himself  exclusively  into  the  ranks,  not  only  of 
one  party,  but  of  one  section  of  a  party.  Nev- 
ertheless, such  suspense  could  not  last  very  long; 
he  must  decide  at  all  events  before  the  next  ses- 
sion. Once  he  was  seen  in  the  arena  of  his  old 
;  triumphs,  on  the  benches  devoted  to  strangers 
1  distinguished  by  the  Speaker's  order.  There, 
recognized  by  the  older  members,  eagerlv  gazed 
at  by  the  younger,  Guy  Darrell  listened  calmly, 
throughout  a  long  field  night,  to  voices  that 
must  have  roused  from  forgotten  graves,  kin- 
dhng  and  glorious  memories ;  voices  of  those — 
veterans  now — by  whose  side  he  had  once  strug- 
gled for  some  cause  which  he  had  then,  in  the 
necessary  exaggeration  of  all  honest  enthusiasm, 
identified  with  a  nation's  life-blood.  Yoices  too 
of  the  old  antagonists,  over  whose  routed  argu- 
ments he  had  marched  triumphant  amidst  ap- 
plauses that  the  next  day  rang  again  through 
England  from  side  to  side.  Hark,^he  very  man 
with  whom,  in  the  old  battle-days,  he  had  been 
the  most  habitually  pitted,  is  speaking  now. 
His  tones  are  embarrassed — his  argument  con- 
fused. Does  he  know  who  listens  yonder?  Old 
members  think  so  —  smile,  whisper  each  ether, 
and  glance  significantly  Mhere  DaiTell  sits. 

gits,  as  became  him,  tranquil,  respectful,  in- 
tent, seemingly,  perhaps  really,  unconscious  of 
the  sensation  he  excites.  What  an  eye  for  an 
orator  I  how  like  the  eye  in  a  portrait  I  it  seems 
to  fix  on  each  other  eye  that  seeks  it — steady, 
fascinating.  Yon  distant  members  behind  the 
Speaker's  chair,  at  the  far  distance,  feel  the  light 
of  that  eye  travel  toward  them.  How  lofty  and 
massive  among  all  those  rows  of  human  heads 
seems  that  forehead,  bending  slightly  dovna,  with 
the  dark,  strong  line  of  the  weighty  eyebrow! 
But  what  is  passing  within  that  secret  mind? 
Is  there  mournfulness  in  the  retrospect?  Is 
there  eagerness  to  renew  the  strife?  Is  that 
interest  in  the  Hour's  debate  feigned  or  real? 
Impossible  for  him  who  gazed  upon  that  face  to 
say.  And  that  eye  would  have  seemed  to  the 
gazer  to  read  himself  through  and  through  to 
the  heart's  core,  long  ere  the  gazer  could  haz- 
ard a  single  guess  as  to  the  thoughts  beneath 
that  marble  forehead,  as  to  the  emotions  Mithin 
the  heart  over  which,  in  old  senatorial  fashion, 
the  arms  were  folded  with  so  conventional  an 
ease. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

Darrell  and  Lionel. 

Daeeell  had  received  Lionel  with  some  evi- 
dent embarrassment,  which  soon  yielded  to  af- 
fectionate warmth.  He  took  to  the  young  man 
whose  fortunes  he  had  so  improved  :  he  felt  that 
with  the  improved  fortunes  the  young  man's 
whole  being  was  improved ; — assured  position, 
early  commune  with  the  best  social  circles,  in 
which  the  equality  of  fashion  smooths  away  all 
disparities  in  rank,  had  softened  in  Lionel  much 
of  the  wayward  and  morbid  irritability  of  his 
boyish  pride ;  but  the  high  spirit,  the  generous 


IGO 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


love  of  independence,  the  scorn  of  mei-cenary 
calculation,  were  strong  as  ever ;  these  were  in 
the  grain  of  his  nature.  In  common  with  all 
who  in  youth  aspire  to  be  one  day  noted  from 
"the  undistinguishable  many,"  Lionel  had  form- 
ed to  himself  a  certain  ideal  standard,  above 
the  ordinary  level  of  what  the  world  is  content- 
ed to  call  honest,  or  esteem  clever.  He  admit- 
ted into  his  estimate  of  life  the  heroic  element, 
not  undesirable  even  in  tlie  most  practical  point 
of  view,  for  the  world  is  so  in  the  habit  of  de- 
crying— of  disbelieving  in  high  motives  and  pure 
emotions — of  daguerreotyping  itself  with  all  its 
ugliest  wrinkles,  stripped  of  the  true  bloom  that 
brightens,  of  the  true  expression  that  redeems, 
those  defects  which  it  invites  the  sun  to  limn, 
that  we  shall  never  judge  human  nature  aright, 
if  we  do  not  set  out  in  life  with  our  gaze  on  its 
fairest  beauties,  and  our  belief  in  its  latent  good. 
In  a  word,  we  should  begin  with  the  Heroic,  if 
we  would  learn  the  Human.  But  though  to 
himself  Lionel  thus  secretly  prescribed  a  certain 
superiority  of  type,  to  be  sedulously  aimed  at, 
even  if  never  actually  attained,  he  was  wholly 
without  pedantry  and  arrogance  toward  his  own 
contemporaries.  From  this  he  was  saved  not 
only  by  good-nature,  animal  spirits,  frank  hard- 
ihood, but  by  the  very  affluence  of  ideas  which 
animated  his  tongue,  colored  his  language,  and 
whether  to  young  or  old,  wise  or  dull,  made  his 
conversation  racy  and  original.  He  was  a  de- 
lightful companion;  and  if  he  had  taken  much 
instruction  from  those  older  and  wiser  than 
himself,  he  so  bathed  that  instruction  in  the 
fresh  fountain  of  his  own  lively  intelligence,  so 
warmed  it  at  his  own  beating,  impulsive  heart, 
that  he  could  make  an  old  man's  gleanings  from 
experience  seem  a  young  man's  guesses  into 
truth.  Faults  he  had,  of  coui-se  —  chiefly  the 
faults  common  at  his  age ;  among  them,  per- 
haps, the  most  dangerous  were — Firstly,  care- 
lessness in  money  matters  ;  secondly,  a  distaste 
for  advice  in  which  prudence  was  visibly  pre- 
dominant. His  tastes  were  not  in  reality  ex- 
travagant ;  but  money  slipped  through  his  hands, 
leaving  little  to  show  for  it ;  and  when  his  quar- 
terly allowance  became  due,  ami)le  though  it 
was — too  ample,  perhaps — debts  wholly  forgot- 
ten started  up  to  seize  hold  of  it.  And  debts, 
as  yet  being  manageable,  were  not  regarded  with 
sufficient  horror.  Faid  or  put  aside,  as  the  case 
might  be,  they  were  merely  looked  u])on  as  bores. 
Youth  is  in  danger  till  it  learu  to  look  upon 
them  as  furies.  For  advice,  he  took  it  with 
pleasure,  when  clothed  with  elegance  and  art — 
when  it  addressed  ambition — when  it  exalted 
the  loftier  virtues.  But  advice,  practical  and 
prosy,  went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other. 
In  fact,  with  many  talents,  he  had  yet  no  ade- 
quate ballast  of  common  sense ;  and  if  ever  he 
get  enough  to  steady  his  bark  through  life's  try- 
ing voyage,  the  necessity  of  so  much  dull  weight 
must  be  forcibly  striken  home  less  to  his  reason 
than  his  imagination  or  his  heart.  Bnt  if,  some- 
how or  other,  he  get  it  not,  I  will  not  insure  his 
vessel. 

I  know  not  if  Lionel  Haughton  had  genius ; 
he  never  assumed  that  he  had  ;  l)ut  he  had 
something  more  like  genius  than  tiiat  in'ototy])e 
— iiEsoLVE — of  which  lie  boasted  to  the  artist. 
He  had  youth — real  youth  —  youth  of  nrind, 
youth  of  heart,  youth  of  soul.    Lithe  and  supple 


as  he  moved  before  you,  with  the  eye  to  which 
light  or  dew  sprung  at  once  from  a  nature  vi- 
brating to  every  lofty,  every  tender  thought,  he 
seemed  more  than  young — the  incarnation  of 
youth. 

Darrell  took  to  him  at  once.  Amidst  all  the 
engagements  crowded  on  the  important  man, 
he  contrived  to  see  Lionel  daily.  And  what 
may  seem  strange,  Guy  Darrell  felt  more  at 
home  with  Lionel  Haughton  than  with  any  of 
his  own  contemporaries — than  even  with  Alban 
jVIorley.  To  the  last,  indeed,  he  opened  speech 
with  less  reserve  of  certain  portions  of  the  past, 
or  of  certain  projects  in  the  future.  But  still, 
even  there,  he  adopted  a  tone  of  half-playful, 
half-mournful  satire,  which  might  be  in  itself 
disguise.  Alban  Morley,  with  all  his  good  qual- 
ities, was  a  man  of  the  world ;  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  Guy  Darrell  talked  to  him.  But  it  was 
only  a  very  small  part  of  Guy  Darrell  the  man 
of  which  the  world  could  say  "mine." 

To  Lionel  he  let  out,  as  if  involuntarily,  the 
more  amiable,  tender,  poetic  attributes  of  his 
varying,  complex,  uncompreheuded  character; 
not  professedly  confiding,  but  not  taking  pains 
to  conceal.  Hearing  what  worldlings  would  call 
"  Sentiment"  in  Lionel,  he  seemed  to  glide  soft- 
ly down  to  Lionel's  own  years,  and  talk  "  senti- 
ment" in  return.  After  all,  this  skilled  lawyer, 
this  noted  politician,  had  a  great  dash  of  the  boy 
still  in  him.  Reader,  did  you  ever. meet  a  re- 
ally clever  man  who  had  not  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Saith  a  very  homely  proverb  (pardon  its  vulgarity), 
"You  can  not  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear." 
But  a  sow's  ear  is  a  much  finer  work  of  art  than  a  silk 
purse.  And  grand,  indeed,  the  mechanician  who  could 
make  a  sow's  ear  out  of  a  silk  purse,  or  conjure  into 
creatures  of  flesh  and  blood  the  sarcenet  and  tulle  of  a 
Loudon  drawing-room. 

' '  Mamma,"  asked  Honoria  Carr  Vipont, "  what 
sort  of  a  person  was  Mrs.  Darrell  ?" 

"  She  was  not  in  our  set,  my  dear,"  answered 
Lady  Selina.  "The  Vipont  Crookes  are  just 
one  of  those  connections  in  which,  though,  of 
course,  one  is  civil  to  all  connections,  one  is 
more  or  less  intimate,  according  as  they  take 
after  the  Viponts  or  after  the  Crookes.  Poor 
woman !  she  died  just  before  Mr.  Darrell  entered 
Parliament,  and  appeared  in  society.  But  I 
should  say  she  was  not  an  agreeable  pei'son. 
Not  nice,"  added  Lady  Selina,  after  a  pause, 
and  conveying  a  M'orld  of  meaning  in  that  con- 
ventional monosyllable. 

"I  suppose  she  was  very  accomplished — very 
clever?" 

"  Quite  the  reverse,  my  dear.  Mr.  Darrell  was 
exceedingly  young  when  he  married — scarcely 
of  age.  She  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  suit 
him." 

"  But  at  least  she  must  have  been  very  much 
attached  to  him — very  proud  of  him?" 

Lady  Selina  glanced  aside  from  her  work, 
and  observed  her  daughter's  face,  which  evinced 
an  animation  not  usual  to  a  young  lady  of  a 
breeding  so  lofty,  and  a  mind  so  well  disci- 
plined. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Lady  Selina,  "that  she 
was  proud  of  him.     She  would  have  been  proud 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


161 


of  his  station,  or  rather  of  that  to  which  his  fame 
and  fortune  would  have  raised  her,  had  she 
lived  to  enjoy  it.  But  for  a  few  years  after  her 
marriage  they  were  very  poor ;  and  though  his 
rise  at  the  bar  was  sudden  and  brilliant,  he  was 
lone  wholly  absorbed  in  his  profession,  and  lived 
in  Bloomsbury.  Mrs.  Darrell  was  not  proud  of 
that.  The  Crookes  are  generally  fine  —  give 
themselves  airs — marry  into  great  houses  if  they 
can — but  we  can't  naturalize  them — they  always 
remain  Crookes — useful  connections,  veiy  I  Carr 
says  we  have  not  a  mox'e  useful — but  third-rate, 
my  dear.  All  the  Crookes  are  bad  wives,  be- 
cause they  are  never  satisfied  with  their  own 
homes,  but  are  always  trying  to  get  into  great 
people's  homes.  Not  very  long  before  she  died,  1 
Mrs.  Darrell  took  her  friend  and  relation,  Mrs. 
Lyndsay,  to  live  with  her.  I  suspect  it  was  not 
from  affection,  or  any  great  consideration  for 
Mrs.  Lyndsay's  circumstances  (which  were  in- 
dee'd  those  of  actual  destitution,  till — thanks  to 
Mr.  DaiTell — she  won  her  lawsuit),  but  simply 
because  she  looked  to  Mrs.  Lyndsay  to  get  her 
into  our  set.  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was  a  great  favorite 
with  all  of  us,  charming  manners — perfectly  cor- 
rect, too — thorough  Vipont — thorough  gentle- 
woman— but  artful!  Oh,  so  artful  I  She  hu- 
mored poor  Mrs.  Darrell's  absurd  vanity ;  but 
she  took  care  not  to  injure  herself.  Of  course, 
Darrell's  wife,  and  a  Vipont — though  only  a 
Vipont  Crooke — had  free  passport  into  the  out- 
skirts of  good  society,  the  great  parties,  and  so 
forth.  But  there  it  stopped ;  even  I  should  have 
been  compromised  if  I  had  admitted  into  our  set 
a  woman  who  was  bent  on  compromising  her- 
self. Handsome — in  a  bad  style — not  the  Vi- 
pont tournure ;  and  not  only  silly  and  flirting, 
but — (we  are  alone,  keep  the  secret) — decided- 
ly vulgar,  my  dear." 

"  You  amaze  me !  How  such  a  man — "  Ho- 
noria  stopped,  coloring  up  to  the  temples. 

"Clever  men,"  said  LadySelina,  "as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  do  choose  the  oddest  wives !  The  clev- 
erer a  man  is,  the  more  easily,  I  do  believe,  a 
woman  can  take  him  in.  However,  to  do  Mr. 
Darrell  justice,  he  has  been  taken  in  only  once. 
After  Mrs.  Darrell's  death,  Jlrs.  Lyndsay,  I 
suspect,  tried  her  chance,  but  failed.  Of  course, 
she  could  not  actually  stay  ia  the  same  house 
with  a  widower  who  was  then  young,  and  who 
had  only  to  get  rid  of  a  wife  to  whom  one  was 
forced  to  be  shy,  in  order  to  be  received  into  our 
set  with  open  arms ;  and,  in  short,  to  be  of  the 
very  best  monde.  Mr.  Darrell  came  into  Parlia- 
ment immensely  rich  (a  legacy  from  an  old  East 
Indian,  besides  his  own  professional  savings) — 
took  the  house  he  has  now,  close  by  us.  Mrs. 
Lyndsay  was  obliged  to  retire  to  a  cottage  at  Ful- 
ham.  But  as  she  professed  to  be  a  second  mo- 
ther to  poor  Matilda  Darrell,  she  contrived  to 
be  very  much  at  Carlton  Gardens ;  her  daughter 
Caroline  was  nearly  always  there,  profiting  by 
Matilda's  masters ;  and  I  did  think  that  Mrs. 
Lyndsay  would  have  caught  Darrell — but  your 
papa  said  'No,'  and  he  was  right,  as  he  always 
is.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Lyndsay  would  have  been 
an  excellent  wife  to  a  public  man — so  popular — 
knew  the  world  so  well — never  made  enemies 
till  she  made  an  enemy  of  poor  dear  Montfort ; 
but  that  was  natural.  By-the-by,  I  must  write 
to  Caroline.  Sweet  creature  !  but  how  absurd, 
shutting  herself  up  as  if  she  were  fretting  for 


Montfort!     That's  so  like  her  mother — heart- 
less— but  full  of  propriety." 

Here  Carr  Vipont  and  Colonel  Morley  entered 
the  room.  "We  have  just  left  Darrell,"  said 
Carr;  "he  will  dine  here  to-day,  to  meet  our 
cousin  Alban.  I  have  asked  his  cousin,  young 
Haughton,  and  *  *  *  *^  and  *  *  *  *^  your 
cousins,  Selina — (a  small  party  of  cousins) — so 
lucky  to  find  Darrell  disengaged." 

"  I  ventured  to  promise,"  said  the  Colonel, 
addressing  Honoria  in  an  under  voice,  "that 
Darrell  should  hear  you  play  Beethoven." 

HoxoRiA.  "  Is  Mr.  Darrell  so  fond  of  music, 
then?" 

Colonel  Morlet.  "One  would  not  have 
thought  it.  He  keeps  a  secretary  at  Fawley  who 
plays  the  flute.  There's  something  very  inter- 
esting about  Dan'ell.  I  wish  you  could  hear 
his  ideas  on  marriage  and  domestic  life — more 
freshness  of  heart  than  in  the  young  men  one 
meets  nowadays.  It  may  be  prejudice ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  young  fellows  of  the  pres- 
ent race,  if  more  sober  and  staid  than  we  were, 
are  sadly  wanting  in  character  and  spirit — no 
warm  blood  in  their  veins.  But  I  should  not 
talk  thus  to  a  demoiselle  who  has  all  those  young 
fellows  at  her  feet." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Selina,  overhearing,  and 
with  a  half-laugh,  "  Honoria  thinks  much  as  you 
do ;  she  finds  the  young  men  so  insipid — all  like 
one  another — the  same  set  phrases." 

"The  same  stereotyped  ideas,"  added  Hono- 
ria, moving  away  with  a  gesture  of  calm  disdain. 
[      "Avery  superior  mind  hers,"  whispered  the 
I  Colonel  to  Carr  Vipont.     "  She'll  never  marry 
j  a  fool." 

j  Guy  Darrell  was  very  pleasant  at  "the  small 
family  dinner-party."  Carr  was  afways  popular 
I  in  his  manners — the  true  old  House  of  Com- 
1  mons  manner,  which  was  very  like  that  of  a 
I  gentlemanlike  public  school.  Lady  Selina,  as 
has  been  said  before,  in  her  own  family  circle 
I  was  natural  and  genial.  Young  Carr,  there, 
without  his  wife,  moi'e  pretentious  than  his 
!  father — being  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty — felt  a 
I  certain  awe  of  Darrell,  and  spoke  little,  which 
was  much  to  his  own  credit,  and  to  the  general 
conviviality.  The  other  members  of  the  sym- 
posium, besides  Lady  Selina,  Honoria,  and  a 
younger  sister,  were  but  Darrell,  Lionel,  and 
Lady  Selina's  two  cousins;  elderly  peers — one 
with  the  garter,  the  other  in  the  cabinet — ^jovial 
men,  who  had  been  wild  fellows  once  in  the  same 
mess-room,  and  still  joked  at  each  other  when- 
ever they  met  as  they  met  now.  Lionel,  who 
remembered  Vance's  description  of  Lady  Selina, 
and  who  had  since  heard  her  spoken  of  in  so- 
ciety as  a  female  despot  who  can-ied  to  perfec- 
tion the  arts  by  which  despots  flourish,  with 
majesty  to  impose,  and  caresses  to  deceive — an 
Aurungzebe  in  petticoats — was  sadly  at  a  loss 
to  reconcile  such  portraiture  with  the  good-hu- 
mored, motherly  woman  who  talked  to  liim  of 
her  hotne,  her  husband,  her  children,  with  open 
fondness  and  becoming  pride,  and  who,  far  from 
being  so  formidably  clever  as  the  world  cruel- 
ly gave  out,  seemed  to  Lionel  rather  below  par 
in  her  understanding ;  strike  from  her  talk  its 
kindliness,  and  the  residue  was  very  like  twad- 
dle. After  dinner,  various  members  of  the  Vi- 
pont family  dropped  in — asked  impromptu  by 
Carr  or  by  Lady  Selina,  in  hasty  three-cornered 


1G2 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


notes,  to  take  that  occasion  of  renewing  their 
acquaintance  with  their  distinguished  connec- 
tion. By  some  accident,  among  those  invited 
there  were  but  few  young  single  ladies ;  and  by 
some  other  accident,  those  few  were  all  plain. 
Honoria  Vipont  was  unequivocally  the  belle  of 
the  room.  It  could  not  but  be  observed  that 
Darrell  seemed  struck  with  her — talked  with  her 
more  than  with  any  other  lady ;  and  when  she 
went  to  the  piano,  and  played  that  great  air  of 
Beethoven's,  in  which  music  seems  to  have  got 
into  a  knot  that  only  fingers  the  most  artful  can 
unravel,  Darrell  remained  in  his  seat  aloof  and 
alone,  listening,  no  doubt,  with  ravished  atten- 
tion. But  just  as  the  air  ended,  and  Honoria 
turned  round  to  look  for  him,  he  was  gone. 

Lionel  did  not  linger  long  after  him.  The 
gay  young  man  went,  thence,  to  one  of  those 
vast  crowds  which  seem  convened  for  a  practi- 
cal parody  of  Mr.  Bentham's  famous  proposi- 
tion— contriving  the  smallest  happiness  for  the 
greatest  number. 

It  was  a  very  great  house,  belonging  to  a  very 
great  person.  Colonel  Morley  had  procured  an 
invitation  for  Lionel,  and  said,  "  Go  ;  you  should 
be  seen  there."  Colonel  Morley  had  passed  the 
age  of  growing-into  society — no  such  cares  for 
the  morrow  could  add  a  cubit  to  his  convention- 
al stature.  One  among  a  group  of  other  young 
men  by  the  door-way,  Lionel  beheld  Darrell, 
who  had  arrived  before  him,  listening  to  a  very 
handsome  young  lady,  with  an  attention  quite 
as  earnest  as  that  which  had  gratified  the  supe- 
rior mind  of  the  well-educated  Honoria.  A  very 
handsome  young  lady  certainly,  but  not  with  a 
superior  mind,  nor  supposed  hitherto  to  have 
found  young  gentlemen  "  insipid."  Doubtless 
she  would  henceforth  do  so.  A  few  minutes 
after,  Darrell  was  listening  again — this  time  to 
another  young  lady,  generally  called  "fast." 
If  his  attentions  to  her  were  not  marked,  hers 
to  him  were.  She  rattled  on  to  him  volubly, 
laughed,  pretty  hoyden,  at  her  own  sallies,  and 
seemed  at  last  so  to  fascinate  him  by  her  gay 
spirits  that  he  sate  down  by  her  side  ;  and  the 
playful  smile  on  his  lips — lips  that  had  learned 
to  be  so  gravely  firm — -showed  that  he  could 
enter  still  into  the  mirth  of  childhood  ;  for  sure- 
ly to  the  time-worn  man  the  fast  young  lady 
must  have  seemed  but  a  giddy  child.  Lionel 
was  amused.  Could  this  be  the  austere  recluse 
whom  he  had  left  in  the  shades  of  Fawlej'? 
Guy  Darrell,  at  his  years,  with  his  dignified 
rejjute,  the  object  of  so  many  nods,  and  becks, 
and  wreathed  smiles — could  he  descend  to  be 
that  most  frivolous  of  characters,  a  male  co- 
quette? Was  he  in  earnest — was  his  vanity 
duped  ?  Looking  again,  Lionel  saw  in  his  kins- 
man's fiice  a  sudden  return  of  the  sad  despond- 
ent expression  which  had  moved  his  own  young 
pity  in  the  solitudes  of  Fawley.  But  in  a  mo- 
ment the  man  roused  himself — the  sad  expres- 
sion was  gone.  Had  the  girl's  merry  laugh 
again  chased  it  away  ?  But  Lionel's  attention 
was  now  drawn  from  Darrell  himself  to  the  ob- 
servations murmured  round  him,  of  which  Dar- 
rell was  the  theme. 

"  Yes,  he  is  bent  on  marrying  again  !  I  have 
it  from  Alban  Morley — immense  fortune — and 
so  young-looking,  any  girl  might  fall  in  love 
with  such  eyes  and  forehead  ;  besides,  what  a 
jointure  he  could  settle !     .     .     .    Do  look  at 


that  girl,  Flora  Vyvyan,  trying  to  make  a  fool 
of  him.  .She  can't  appreciate  that  kind  of  man, 
and  she  would  not  be  caught  by  his  money — 
does  not  want  it.  ...  I  wonder  she  is  not 
afraid  of  him.  He  is  certainly  quizzing  her. 
.  .  .  The  men  think  her  pretty — I  don't. 
.  .  .  They  say  he  is  to  return  to  Parliament, 
and  have  a  place  in  the  Cabinet.  .  .  .  Xo ! 
he  has  no  children  living — very  natural  he  should 
marry  again.  ...  A  nephew  I — you  are 
quite  mistaken.  Young  Haughton  is  no  nephew 
— a  very  distant  connection — could  not  expect 
to  be  the  heir.  ...  It  was  given  out  though, 
at  Paris.  The  Duchess  thought,  so,  and  so  did 
Lady  Jane.  They'll  not  be  so  civil  to  young 
Haughton  now.     .     .     .     Hush — " 

Lionel,  wishing  to  hear  no  more,  glided  by, 
and  penetrated  farther  into  the  throng.  And 
then,  as  he  proceeded,  with  those  last  words  on 
his  ear,  the  consciousness  came  upon  him  that 
his  position  had  undergone  a  change.  Difficult 
to  define  it ;  to  an  ordinary  by-stander,  people 
would  have  seemed  to  welcome  him  cordially 
as  ever.  The  gradations  of  respect  in  polite  so- 
ciety are  so  exquisitely  delicate,  that  it  seems 
only  by  a  sort  of  magnetism  that  one  knows 
from  day  to  day  whether  one  has  risen -or  de- 
clined. A  man  has  lost  high  ofiice,  patronage, 
power,  never,  perhaps,  to  regain  them.  Peo- 
ple don't  turn  their  backs  on  him  ;  their  smiles 
are  as  gracious,  their  hands  as  flatteringly  ex- 
tended. But  that  man  would  be  dull  as  a  rhi- 
noceros if  he  did  not  feel  as  every  one  who  ac- 
costs him  feels — that  he  has  descended  in  the 
ladder.  So  with  all  else.  Lose  even  your  for- 
tune, it  is  not  the  next  day  in  a  London  drawing- 
room  that  your  friends  look  f.s  if  you  were  go- 
iug  to  ask  them  for  five  pounds.  Wait  a  year 
or  so  for  that.  But  if  they  have  jiist  heard  you 
are  ruined,  you  will  feel  that  they  have  heai-d 
it,  let  them  how  ever  so  courteously,  smile  ever 
so  kindly.  Lionel  at  Paris,  in  the  last  year  or 
so,  had  been  more  than  fashionable  :  he  had 
been  the  fashion — courted,  run  after,  petted, 
quoted,  imitated.  That  evening  he  felt  as  an 
author  may  feel  who  has  been  the  rage,  and, 
without  fault  of  his  own,  is  so  no  more.  The 
rays  that  had  gilt  him  had  gone  back  to  the  oi'b 
that  lent.  And  they  who  were  most  genial  stiU 
to  Lionel  Haughton,  were  those  who  still  most 
respected  thirty-five  thousand  pounds  a  year — 
in  Guy  Darrell ! 

Lionel  was  angry  with  himself  that  he  felt 
galled.  But  in  his  wounded  pride  there  was  no 
mercenary  regret — only  that  sort  of  sickness 
which  comes  to  youth  when  the  hoUowness  of 
worldly  life  is  first  made  clear  to  it.  From  the 
faces  round  him  there  fell  that  glamour  by  which 
the  amour  j>ropre  is  held  captive  in  large  as- 
semblies, where  the  amour  propre  is  flattered. 
"Magnificent,  intelligent  audience,"  thinks  the 
applauded  actor.  "Delightful  party,"  murmurs 
the  worshiped  beauty.  Glamour  I  glamour !  Let 
the  audience  yawn  while  the  actor  mouths  ;  let 
the  party  neglect  the  beauty  to  adore  another, 
and  straightway  the  "  magnificent  audience"  is 
an  "  ignorant  public,"  and  "  the  delightful  par- 
ty" a  "  heartless  world." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


163 


CHAPTER  X. 

Escaped  from  a  London  Drawing-Eoonj,  flesh  once  more 
tingles,  and  blood  flo«s — Guy  Darrell  explains  to  Lionel 
Haughton  why  he  holds  it  a  duty  to  be — an  old  fool. 

Lionel  Haughton  glided  through  the  dis- 
enchanted rooms,  and  breathed  a  long  breath 
of  relief  when  he  found  himself  in  the  friendless 
streets. 

As  he  walked  slow  and  thoughtful  on,  he  sud- 
denly felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  tm-ned,  and 
saw  Darrell. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  my  dear  Lionel;  I  am 
tired  out.     What  a  lovely  night!     What  sweet 
scorn  in  the  eyes  of  those  stars  that  we  have 
•  neglected  for  yon  flaring  lights!" 

Lionel.  "Is  it  scorn — is  it  pity?  Is  it  but 
serene  indifference?" 

Dareell.  "As  we  ourselves  interpret;  if 
scorn  be  present  in  our  own  hearts,  it  will  be 
seen  in  the  disc  of  Jupiter.  Man,  egoist  though 
he  be,  exacts  sympathy  from  all  the  universe. 
Joyous,  he  says  to  the  sun,  'Life-giver,  rejoice 
with  me.'  Grieving,  he  says  to  the  moon, '  Pen- 
sive one,  thou  sharest  my  sorrow.'  Hope  for 
fame ;  a  star  is  its  promise !  Mourn  for  the 
dead ;  a  star  is  the  land  of  reunion !  Say  to 
Earth,  '  I  have  done  with  thee ;'  to  Time,  '  Thou 
hast  naught  to  bestow  ;'  and  all  Space  cries  aloud, 
'  The  earth  is  a  speck,  thine  inheritance  infinity. 
Time  melts  Avhile  thou  sighest.  The  discontent 
of  a  mortal  is  the  instinct  that  proves  thee  im- 
mortal.' Thus  construing  Xature,  Nature  is  our 
companion,  our  consoler.  Benign  as  the  play- 
mate, she  lends  herself  to  our  shifting  humors. 
Serious  as  the  teacher,  she  responds  to  the 
steadier  inquiries  of  reason.  Mystic  and  hal- 
lowed as  the  priestess,  she  keeps  alive  by  dim 
oracles  that  spiritual  yearning  within  us,  in 
which,  from  savage  to  sage— through  all  dreams, 
through  all  creeds — thrills  the  sense  of  a  link 
with  Divinity.  Never,  therefore,  while  confer- 
ring with  Nature,  is  Man  wholly  alone,  nor  is 
she  a  single  companion  with  uniform  shape. 
Ever  n£w,  ever  various,  she  can  pass  from  gay  to 
severe — from  fancy  to  science — quick  as  thought 
passes  from  the  dance  of  a  leaf,  from  the  tintof 
a  rainbow,  to  the  theory  of  motion,  the  problem 
of  light.  But  lose  Nature — forget  or  dismiss 
her — make  companions,  by  hundreds,  of  men 
who  ignore  her,  and  I  will  not  say  with  the  poet, 
'This  is  solitude.'  But  in  the  commune,  what 
stale  monotony,  what  weary  sameness  I" 

Thus  Darrell  continued  to  weave  together  sen- 
tence with  sentence,  the  intermediate  connec- 
tion of  meaning  often  so  subtle,  that  when  put 
down  on  paper  it  requires  effort  to  discern  it. 
But  it  was  his  peculiar  gift  to  make  clear  when 
spoken  what  in  writing  would  seem  obscure. 
Look,  manner,  each  delicate  accent  in  a  voice 
wonderfully  distinct  in  its  unrivaled  melodv,  all 
so  aided  the  sense  of  mere  words,  that  "it  is 
scarcely  extravagant  to  say  he  might  have  talked 
an  unknown  language,  and  a  listener  would  have 
understood.  But,  understood  or  not,  those  sweet 
intonations  it  was  such  delight  to  hear,  that  anv  ' 
one  with  nerves  alive  to  music  would  have  mur- 
mured, "  Talk  on  forever."  And  in  this  gift  lav 
one  main  secret  of  the  man's  strange  influence 
over  all  who  came  familiarly  into  his  intercourse  • 
so  that  if  Darrell  had  ever  bestowed  confidential 
intimacy  on  any  one  not  by  some  antagonistic 
idiosyncracy  steeled  against  its  charm,  and  that  I 


intimacy  had  been  withdrawn,  a  void  never  to 
be  refilled  must  have  been  left  in  the  life  thus 
robbed. 

Stopping  at  his  door,  as  Lionel,  rapt  by  the 
music,  had  forgotten  the  pain  of  the  reverie  so 
bewitohingly  broken,  Darrell  detained  the  hand 
held  out  to  him,  and  said,  "  No,  not  yet — I  have 
something  to  say  to  you:  come  in; "let  me  say 
it  now." 

Lionel  bowed  his  head,  and  in  surprised  con- 
jecture followed  his  kinsman  up  the  lofty  stairs 
into  the  same  comfortless  stately  room  t"hat  has 
been  already  described.  When  the  sen-ant  closed 
the  door,  Darrell  sank  into  a  chair.  Fixing  his 
eyes  upon  Lionel  with  almost  parental  kindness, 
and  motioning  his  young  cousin  to  sit  by  his  side, 
close,  he  thus  began  : 

"  Lionel,  before  I  was  your  age  I  was  married 
— I  was  a  father.     I  am  lonely  and  childless 
now.     My  life  has  been  moulded  by  a  solemn 
obligation  which  so  few  could  comprehend,  that 
I  scarce  know  a  man  living  beside  yourself  to 
whom  I  would  frankly  confide  it.     Pride  of  fam- 
ily is  a  common  infirmity — often  petulant  with 
the  poor,  often  insolent  with  the  rich ;  but  rare- 
ly, perhaps,  out  of  that  pride  do  men  construct 
a  positive  binding  duty,  which  at  all  self-sacri- 
fice should  influence  the  practical  choice  of  life. 
As  a  child,  before  my  judgment  could  discern 
how  much  of  vain  superstition  may  lurk  in  our 
reverence  for  the  dead,  my  whole  heart  was  en- 
gaged in  a  passionate  dream,  which  my  waking 
■  existence  became  vowed  to  realize.     My  father! 
— my  lip  quivers,  my  eyes  moisten  as  I  recall 
j  him,  even  now — my  father !— I  loved  him  so  in- 
!  tensely ! — the   love  of  childhood  how  fearfully 
strong  it  is!     All  in  him  was  so  gentle,  yet  so 
sensitive — chivalry  without   its   armor.     I  was 
his  constant  companion :  he  spoke  to  me  unre- 
servedly, as  a  poet  to  his  muse.     I  wept  at  his 
sorrows  —  I  chafed  at  his   humiliations.      He 
talked  of  ancestors  as  he  thought  of  them ;  to 
him  they  were  beings  like  the  old  Lares — not 
dead  in  graves,   but   images   ever  present  on 
household  hearths.     Doubtless  he  exaggerated 
their  worth — as  their  old  importance.     Obscure, 
indeed,  in  the  annals  of  empire,  their  deeds  and 
their   power,  their   decline    and  fall.     Not  so 
thought  he;  they  were  to  his  eyes  the  moon 
track  in  the  ocean  of  history — light  on  the  waves 
over  which  they  had  gleamed — all  the  ocean 
elsewhere  dark !     With  him  thought  I ;  as  my 
father  spoke,  his  child  believed.     But  what  to 
the  eyes  of  the  world  was  this  inheritor  of  a 
vaunted  name? — a  threadbare,  slighted,  rustic 
pedent — no  station  in  the  very  province  in  which 
mouldered  away  the  last  lowly  dwelling-place 
of  his  line.     By  lineage  high  above  most  nobles, 
in  position  below  most  yeomen.     He  had  learn- 
ing, he  had  genius ;  but  the  studies  to  which 
they  were  devoted  only  served  yet  more  to  im- 
poverish his  scanty   means,  and  led  rather  to 
ridicule  than  to  honor.     Not  a  day  but  v.hat  I 
saw  on  his  soft  features  the  smart  of  a  fresh 
sting,  the  gnawing  of  a  new  care.     Thus,  as  a 
boy,  feeling  in  myself  a  strength  inspired  by 
afl^ection,  I  came  to  him,  one   day  as  he  sate 
grieving,  and  kneeling  to  him,  said,  'Father, 
courage  yet  a  little  while ;  I  shall  soon  be  man, 
and  I  swear  to  devote  myself  as  man  to  revive 
the  old  fading  race  so  prized  by  you ;  to  rebuild 
the  House  that,  by  you  so  loved,  is  loftier  in  my 


164 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


eyes  than  all  the  heraldry  of  Idngs.'  And  my 
father's  face  brightened,  and  his  voice  blessed 
me ;  and  I  rose  up  ambitious !"  Darrell  paused, 
heaved  a  short,  quick  sigh,  and  then  rapidly 
continued : 

"I  was  fortunate  at  the  university.  That 
was  a  day  when  chiefs  of  party  looked  for  re- 
cruits among  young  men  who  had  given  the 
proofs,  and  won  the  first  fruits  of  emulation 
and  assiduity.  For  statesmanship  then  was 
deemed  an  art  which,  like  that  of  war,  needs 
early  discipline.  I  had  scarcely  left  college 
when  I  was  offered  a  seat  in  Parliament  by  the 
head  of  the  Viponts,  an  old  Lord  Montfort.  I 
was  dazzled  but  for  one  moment — I  declined 
the  next.  The  fallen  House  of  Darrell  needed 
wealth,  and  Parliamentary  success,  in  its  higher 
honors,  often  requires  wealth — never  gives  it. 
It  chanced  that  I  had  a  college  acquaintance 
with  a  young  man  named  Vipont  Crooke.  His 
grandfather,  one  of  the  numberless  Viponts,  had 
been  compelled  to  add  the  name  of  Crooke  to 
his  own  on  succeeding  to  the  property  of  some 
rich  uncle,  who  was  one  of  the  numberless 
Crookes.  I  went  with  this  college  acquaintance 
to  visit  the  old  Lord  Montfort,  at  his  villa  near 
London,  and  thence  to  the  country  house  of  the 
Vipont  Crookes.  I  staid  at  the  last  two  or  three 
weeks.  While  there,  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  elder  Fairthorn,  my  father's  bailiff,  entreat- 
ing me  to  come  immediately  to  Fawley,  hinting 
at  some  great  calamity.  On  taking  leave  of  my 
friend  and  his  family,  something  in  the  manner 
of  his  sister  startled  and  pained  me — an  evident 
confusion,  a  burst  of  tears — I  know  not  what. 
I  had  never  sought  to  win  her  affections.  I  had 
an  ideal  of  the  woman  I  could  love.  It  did  not 
resemble  her.  On  reaching  Fawley,  conceive  the 
shock  that  awaited  me.  My  fiither  was  like  one 
heart-stricken.  The  principal  mortgagee  was 
about  to  foreclose — Fawley  about  to  pass  forever 
from  the  race  of  the  Darrells.  I  saw  that  the 
day  my  father  was  driven  from  the  old  house 
would  be  his  last  on  earth.  What  means  to 
save  him  ? — how  raise  the  pitiful  sum — but  a 
few  thousands — by  which  to  release  from  the 
spoiler's  gripe  those  barren  acres  which  all  the 
lands  of  the  Seymour  or  the  Gower  could  never 
replace  in  my  poor  father's  eyes?  My  sole  in- 
come was  a  college  fellowship,  adequate  to  all 
my  wants,  but  useless  for  sale  or  loan.  I  spent 
the  night  in  vain  consultation  with  Fairthorn. 
There  seemed  not  a  hope.  Next  morning  came 
a  letter  from  young  Vipont  Crooke.  It  was 
manly  and  fi'ank,  tliough  somewhat  coarse. 
With  the  consent  of  his  parents  he  offered  me 
his  sister's  hand,  and  a  dowry  of  £10,000.  He 
hinted,  in  excuse  for  his  bluntness,  that,  per- 
haps from  motives  of  delicacy,  if  I  felt  a  jn-ef- 
erence  for  his  sister,  I  might  not  deem  myself 
rich  enough  to  ))ropose,  and — but  it  matters  not 
what  else  he  said.  You  foresee  the  rest.  My 
father's  life  could  be  saved  from  despair — his 
beloved  home  be  his  shelter  to  the  last.  That 
dowry  would  more  than  cover  the  paltry  debt 
upon  the  lands.  I  gave  myself  not  an  hour  to 
pause.  I  hastened  back  to  the  house  to  which 
fate  had  led  me.  But,"  said  Darrell,  proudly, 
"  do  not  think  I  was  base  enough,  even  with 
such  excuses,  to  deceive  the  young  lady.  I  told 
her  what  was  true ;  that  I  could  not  profess  to 
her  the  love  painted  by  romance-writers  and 


poets ;  but  that  I  loved  no  other,  and  that,  if 
she  deigned  to  accept  my  hand,  I  should  studi- 
ously consult  her  happiness,  and  gratefully  con- 
fide to  her  my  own.  I  said  also,  what  was  true, 
that,  if  she  married  me,  ours  must  be  for  some 
years  a  life  of  privation  and  struggle  ;  that  even 
the  interest  of  her  fortune  must  be  devoted  to 
my  father  while  he  lived,  though  every  shilling 
of  its  capital  would  be  settled  on  herself  and  her 
children.  How  I  blessed  her  when  she  accept- 
ed me,  despite  my  candor! — how  earnestly  I 
prayed  that  I  might  love,  and  cherish,  and  re- 
quite her  !"  Darrell  paused,  in  evident  suffer- 
ing. "  And,  thank  Heaven!  I  have  nothing  on 
that  score  wherewith  to  reproach  myself.  And 
the  strength  of  that  memory  enabled  me  to  bear 
and  forbear  more  than  otherwise  would  have 
been  possible  to  my  quick  spirit,  and  my  man's 
heart.  My  dear  father !  his  death  was  happy — 
his  home  was  saved — he  never  knew  at  what 
sacrifice  to  his  son !  He  was  gladdened  by  the 
first  honors  my  youth  achieved.  He  was  re- 
signed to  my  choice  of  a  profession,  which, 
though  contrary  to  his  antique  prejudices,  that 
allowed  to  the  representative  of  the  Darrells  no 
profession  but  the  sword,  still  promised  the 
wealth  which  would  secure  his  name  from  per- 
ishing. He  was  credulous  of  my  futui'e,  as  if  I 
had  uttered,  not  a  vow,  but  a  prediction.  He 
had  blessed  my  union,  without  foreseeing  its 
sorrows.  He  had  embraced  my  first-born — true, 
it  was  a  girl,  but  it  was  one  link  onward  from 
ancestors  to  posterity.  And  almost  his  last 
words  were  these :  '  You  icill  restore  the  race — 
you  icill  revive  the  name !  and  my  son's  children 
will  visit  the  antiquary's  grave,  and  learn  grat- 
itude to  him  for  all  that  his  idle  lessons  taught 
to  your  healthier  vigor.'  And  I  answered :  '  Fa- 
ther, your  line  shall  not  perish  from  the  land ; 
and  when  I  am  rich  and  great,  and  lordships 
spread  far  round  the  lowly  hall  that  your  life 
ennobled,  I  will  say  to  your  grandchildren, 
"  Honor  ye  and  your  son's  sons,  while  a  Darrell 
yet  treads  the  earth — honor  him  to  whom  I  owe 
every  thought  which  nerved  me  to  toil  for  what 
you  who  come  after  me  may  enjoy."' 

"And  so  the  old  man,  whose  life  had  been  so 
smileless,  died  smiling." 

By  this  time  Lionel  had  stolen  Darrell's  hand 
into  his  own — his  heart  swelling  with  childlike 
tenderness,  and  the  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks. 

Darrell  gently  kissed  his  young  kinsman's 
forehead,  and,  extricating  himself  from  Lionel's 
clasp,  paced  the  room,  and  spoke  on  while  pac- 
ing it. 

"I  made,  then,  a  promise;  it  is  not  kept. 
No  child  of  mine  survives  to  be  taught  reverence 
to  my  father's  grave.  My  wedded  life  was  not 
happy:  its  record  needs  no  words.  Of  two 
children  born  to  me,  both  are  gone.  My  son 
went  first.  I  had  thrown  my  life's  life  into  him 
— a  boy  of  energy,  of  noble  promise.  'Twas  for 
him  I  began  to  build  that  baffled  fabric — '  Se- 
piikhri  iminetnor.'  For  him  I  bought,  acre  on 
acre,  all  the  land  within  reach  of  Fawley — lands 
twelve  miles  distant.  I  had  meant  to  fill  uj)  the 
intervening  space — to  buy  out  a  mushroom  Earl, 
whose  woods  and  corn-fields  lie  between.  I  was 
scheming  the  purchase — scrawling  on  the  coun- 
ty map — when  they  brought  the  news  that  the 
boy  I  had  just  taken  back  to  school  was  dead — 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


drowned  bathing  on  a  calm  summer  eve !  Xo, 
Lionel.  I  must  go  on.  That  grief  I  have  wres- 
tled with — conquered.  I  was  widowed  then. 
A  daughter  still  left — the  first-born,  whom  mv 
father  had  blessed  on  his  death-bed.  I  trans- 
ferred all  my  love,  all  my  hopes,  to  her.  I  had 
no  vain  preference  for  male  heirs.  Is  a  race 
less  pure  thrt  runs  on  through  the  female  line? 
Well,  my  son's  death  was  merciful  compared 
to — "  Again  Darrell  stopped — again  hurried 
on.  "Enough!  all  is  forgiven  in  the  gi-ave  I  I 
was  then  still  in  the  noon  of  man's  life,  free  to 
form  new  ties.  Another  grief  that  I  can  not  tell 
you ;  it  is  not  all  conquered  yet.  And  by  that 
grief  the  last  verdure  of  existence  was  so  blight- 
ed, that — that — in  sliort,  I  had  no  heart  for  nup- 
tial altars — for  the  social  world.  Years  went  bv. 
Each  year  I  said,  'Next  year  the  wound  will  be 
healed ;  I  have  time  yet.'  Xow  age  is  near,  the 
grave  not  far ;  now,  if  ever,  I  must  fulfiU  the 
promise  that  cheered  my  father's  death-bed. 
Xor  does  that  duty  comprise  all  my  motives.  If 
I  would  regain  healthful  thought,"manly  action, 
for  my  remaining  years,  I  must  feel  "that  one 


165 

■  haunting  memory  is  exorcised,  and  forever  laid 

at  rest.     It  can  be  so  only — whatever  my  i-isk 

of  new  cares— whatever  the  folly  of  the  hazard 

at  my  age— be  so  only  by— by— "     Once  more 

,  Darrell  paused,  fixed  his  eyes  "steadily  on  Lionel, 

j  and,  opening  his  arms,  cried  out,  "  Forgive  me, 

I  my  noble  Lionel,  that  I  am  not  contented  with 

an  heir  like  you ;  and  do  not  you  mock  at  the 

old  man  who  dreams  that  woman  may  love  him 

yet,  and  that  his  own  children  may  inherit  his 

father's  home." 

i      Lionel   sprang  to  the  breast  that  opened  to 

\  him;   and  if  Darrell  had  planned  how  best  tc 

!  remove  from  the  young  man's  mind  forever  the 

J  possibility  of  one  selfish  pang,  no  craft  could 

i  have  attained  his  object  like  that  touching  con- 

I  fidence   before   which  the   disparities  between 

youth   and   age   literally  vanished.     And,  both 

made  equal,  both  elevated  alike,  verily  I  know 

not  which  at  the  moment  felt  the  elder  or  the 

,  younger  I     Two  noble  hearts,  intermingled  in 

:  one  emotion,  are  set  free  from  all  time  save  the 

present ;  par  each  with  each,  they  meet  as  broth- 

!  ers  tnin-bom. 


BOOK    Y  I  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Vignettes  for  the  next  Book  of  Beauty. 

"I  QnTE  agree  with  you,  Alban;  Honoria 
Vipont  is  a  very  superior  young  lady." 

"  I  knew  you  would  think  so  I"  cried  the  Col- 
onel, with  more  warmth  than  usual  to  him. 

"  Many  years  since,"  resumed  Darrell,  with 
reflective  air,  "  I  read  Miss  Edgeworth's  novels ; 
and  in  conversing  with  Miss  Honoria  Vipont, 
methinks  I  confer  with  one  of  ^Miss  Edgeworth's 
heroines — so  rational,  so  prudent,  so  well-be- 
haved— so  free  from  silly  romantic  notions — so 
replete  with  solid  information,  moral  philoso- 
phy, and  natural  history — so  sure  to  regulate 
her  watch  and  her  heart  to  the  precise  moment, 
for  the  one  to  strike,  and  the  other  to  throb — 
and  to  marry  at  last  a  respectable  steady  hus- 
band, whom  she  will  win  with  dignity,  and  would 
lose  with — decorum !  A  veiy  superior  girl,  in- 
deed."* 

'•Though  your  description  of  Miss  Vipont  is 
satirical,"  said  Alban  Morley,  smiling,  in  spite 
of  some  irritation,  "  yet  I  will  accept  it  as  pane- 
gyric ;  for  it  conveys,  unintentionally,  a  just  idea 
of  the  qualities  that  make  an  intelligent  com- 
panion and  a  safe  wife.  And  those  are  the 
qualities  we  must  look  to,  if  we  marrv  at  our 
age.  We  are  no  longer  boys,"  added  t'he  Colo- 
nel, sententiously. 

Darrell.  "  Alas,  no !  I  wish  we  were.  Bat  , 
the  truth  of  your  remark  is  indisputable.  Ah,  | 
look !     Is  not  that  a  face  which  might  make  an 

*  Darrell  speaks — not  the  author.     Darrell  is  unjust  to  • 
the  more  exquisite  female  characters  of  a  Novelist,  ad- 
mirable for  strength  of  sense,  correctness  of  delineation, 
terseness  of  narrative,  and  lucidity  of  style — nor  less  ad-  ! 
Hiirable  for  the  unexaggerated  nobleness  of  sentiment  by  ; 
which  some  of  her  heroines  are  notably  distingoished.      i 


octogenarian  forget  that  he  is  not  a  boy  ? — what 
regular  features !  and  what  a  blush !" 

The  friends  were  riding  in  the  park ;  and  as 
Darrell  spoke,  he  bowed  to  a  young  lady,  who, 
with  one  or  two  others,  passe"d  rapidly  by  in  a 
barouche.  It  was  that  verj-  handsome  "young 
lady  to  whom  Lionel  had  seen  him  listening  so 
attentively  in  the  great  crowd,  for  which  Carr 
Vipont's  family  party  had  been  deserted. 

"Yes;  Lady  Adela  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
girls  in  London,"  said  the  Colonel,  who  had  also 
lifted  his  hat  as  the  barouche  whirled  by,  "  and 
amiable  too :  I  have  known  her  ever  since  she 
was  bom.  Her  father  and  I  are  great  friends — 
an  excellent  man,  but  stingy.  I  had  much  diflS- 
culty  in  arranging  the  eldest  girl's  marriage  with 
Lord  Bolton,  and  am  a  trustee  in  the  settlements. 
If  you  feel  a  preference  for  Lady  Adela,  though 
I  don't  think  she  would  suit  you  so  well  as  Miss 
Vipont,  I  will  answer  for  her  father's  encour- 
agement and  her  consent.  'Tis  no  drawback  to 
you,  though  it  is  to  most  of  her  admirers,  when 
I  add,  '  There's  nothing  with  her  I'  " 

"And  nothing  in  her!  which  is  worse,"  said 
Darrell.  "  Still,  it  is  pleasant  to  gaze  on  a 
beautiful  landscape,  even  though  the  soil  be 
barren." 

Colo>t:l  Morley.  "That  depends  upon 
whether  you  are  merely  the  artistic  spectator 
of  the  landscape,  or  the  disappointed  proprietor 
of  the  soil." 

"Admirable!"  said  Darrell;  "you  have  dis- 
posed of  Lady  Adela.  So  ho!  so  ho!"  Dar- 
rell's  horse  (his  old  high-mettled  horse,  freshly 
sent  to  him  from  Fawley,  and  in  spite  of  the 
five  years  that  had  added  to  its  age,  of  spirit 
made  friskier  by  long  repose)  here  put  down  its 
ears — lashed  out  —  and  indulged  in  a  bound 


166 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


which   would  have  unseated  many  a  London 
rider.    A  young  Amazon,  followed  hard  by  some 
two  or  three  young  gentlemen  and  their  grooms, 
shot  by,  swift  and  reckless  as  a  hero  at  Balakla- 
va.     But  with  equal  suddenness,  as  she  caught 
sight  of  Darrell — whose  liand  and  voice  had  al- 
ready soothed  the  excited  nerves  of  his  steed — 
the  Amazon  wheeled  round  and  gained  his  side. 
Throwing  up  her  vail,  she  revealed  a  face  so 
prettily  arch — so  perversely  gay — with  eye  pi' 
radiant  hazel,  and  fair  locks  half  loosened  from 
their  formal  braid — that  it  would  have  beguiled 
resentment  from  the  most  insensible — reconciled 
to  danger  the  most  timid.     And  yet  there  was 
really  a  grace  of  humility  in  the  apologies  she 
tendered  for  her  discourtesy  and  thoughtless- 
ness.    As  the  girl  reined  her  light  palfrey  by 
Darrell's  side — turning  from  the  young  compan- 
ions who  had  now  joined  her,  their  hackneys  in 
a  foam — and  devoting  to  his  ear  all  her  lively 
overflow  of  happy  spirits,  not  untempered  by  a 
certain  deference,  but  still  appai'ently  free  from 
dissimulation — Darrell's  grand  face  lighted  up 
— his  mellow  laugh,  unrestrained,  though  low, 
echoed  her  sportive  tones ;  her  youth,  her  joy- 
ousness   were   irresistibly   contagious.      Alban 
Morley  watched  observant,  while  interchanging 
talk  with  her  attendant  comrades,  young  men 
of  high  ton,  but  who  belonged  to  that  jeunesse 
doree,  with  which  the  surface  of  life  patrician  is 
frittered  over — young  men  with  few  ideas,  few- 
er duties — but  with  plenty  of  leisure — plenty  of 
health — plenty  of  money  in  their  pockets — plen- 
ty of  debts  to  their  tradesmen — daring  at  Mel- 
ton— scheming  at  Tattersall's — ])ride  to  maiden 
aunts — plague  to  thrifty  fathers — fickle  lovers, 
but  solid  matches — in  brief,  fast  livers,  who  get 
through  their  youth  betimes,  and  who,  for  the 
most  part,  middle-aged  before  they  are  thirty — 
tamed  by  wedlock — sobered  by  the  responsibili- 
ties that  come  with  the  cares  of  property  and 
the  dignities  of  rank — undergo  abrupt  metamor- 
phosis into  chairmen  of  quarter  sessions — coun- 
ty members,  or  decorous  peers — their  ideas  en- 
riched as  their  duties  grow — their  opinions,  once 
loose  as  willows  to  the  wind,  stiffening  into  the 
palisades  of  fenced  propriety — valuable,  busy 
men,  changed  as  Henry  V.,  when,  coming  into 
the  cares  of  state,  he  said  to  the  Chief  Justice, 
"There  is  my  hand;"  and  to  Sir  John  Falstaflf, 
"I  know  thee  not,  old  man; 
Fall  to  thy  prayers!" 

But,  meanwhile,  the  elite  of  this  jeunesse  doi-ee 
glittered  round  Flora  Vyvyan:  not  a  regular 
beauty  like  Lady  Adela — not  a  fine  girl  like 
Miss  Vipont,  but  such  a  light,  faultless  figure — 
such  a  pretty,  radiant  face — more  womanly  for 
affecting  to  be  manlike — Hebe  a])ingThalestris. 
Flora,  too,  was  an  heiress — an  only  child — spoil- 
ed, willful — not  at  all  accomplished  (my  belief  is 
that  accomplisiiments  are  thought  great  bores 
by  the  jeunesse  doree) — no  accomplishment  ex- 
cept horsemanship,  with  a  slight  knack  at  bill- 
iards, and  the  capacity  to  take  three  whiffs  from 
a  Spanish  cigarette.  That  last  was  adorable — 
four  offers  had  been  advanced  to  her  hand  on 
that  merit  alone.  (N.B.  Young  ladies  do  them- 
selves no  good  with  the  jeu7iesse  dor^e,  which,  in 
our  time,  is  a  lover  that  rather  smokes  than 
"sighs  like  furnace,"  by  advertising  their  horror 
of  cigars.)  You  would  suppose  that  Flora  Vy- 
vyan must  be  coarse — vulgar  perhaps ;  not  at  all ; 


she  was  piqnante — original ;  and  did  the  oddest 
things  with  the  air  and  look  of  the  highest  breed- 
ing. Fairies  can  not  be  vulgar,  no  matter  what 
they  do;  they  may  take  the  strangest  liberties 
— pinch  tlie  maids,  turn  the  liouse  topsy-turvy ; 
but  they  are  ever  the  darlings  of  grace  and  po- 
etry. Flora  Vyvyan  was  a  fairy.  Not  peculiar- 
ly intellectual  herself,  she  had  a  veneration  for 
intellect ;  those  fast  young  men  were  the  last 
persons  likely  to  fascinate  that  fast  young  lady. 
Women  are  so  perverse ;  they  always  prefer  the 
very  people  you  would  least  suspect — the  antith- 
eses to  themselves.  Y^et  is  it  possible  that  Flo- 
ra Vyvyan  can  have  carried  her  crotchets  to  so 
extravagant  a  degree  as  to  have  designed  the 
conquest  of  Guy  Darrell — ten  years  older  than 
her  own  father  ?  She,  too,  an  heiress — certain- 
ly not  mercenary ;  she  who  had  already  refused 
better  worldly  matches  than  Darrell  himself  was 
— young  men,  handsome  men,  with  coronets  on 
the  margin  of  their  note-paper  and  the  panels 
of  their  broughams  ?  The  idea  seemed  prepos- 
terous ;  nevertheless,  Alban  Morley,  a  shrewd 
observer,  conceived  that  idea,  and  trembled  for 
his  friend. 

At  last  the  yoiing  lady  and  her  satellites  shot 
off,  and  the  Colonel  said,  cautiously,  "  Miss  Vy- 
vyan is — alarming." 

Dabrell.  "Alarming!  the  epithet  requires 
construing." 

Colonel  Morley.  "The  sort  of  girl  who 
might  make  a  man  of  our  years  really  and  liter- 
ally— an  old  fool !" 

Darrell.  "Old  fool  such  a  man  must  be  if 
girls  of  any  sort  are  permitted  to  make  him  a 
greater  fool  than  he  was  before.  But  I  think 
that,  with  those  pretty  hands  resting  on  one's 
arm-cliair,  or  that  sunny  face  shining  into  one's 
study  windows,  one  might  be  a  Aery  happy  old 
fool — and  that  is  the  most  one  can  expect!" 

Colonel  Morley  (checking  an  anxious 
groan).  "  I  am  afraid,  my  poor  friend,  j'ou  arc 
far  gone  already.  No  wonder  Honoria  Vipont 
fails  to  be  appreciated.  But  Lady  Selina  has 
a  maxim — the  truth  of  which  my  experience  at- 
tests—  'tlie  moment  it  comes  to  women,  the 
most  sensible  men  are  the — '  " 

"Oldest  fools!"  put  in  Darrell.  "If  Mark 
Antony  made  such  a  goose  of  himself  for  that 
])ainted  harridan  Cleopatra,  what  would  he  have 
done  for  a  blooming  Juliet?  Youth  and  high 
spirits  !  Alas !  why  are  these  to  be  unsuitable 
companions  for  us,  as  we  reach  that  climax  in 
time  and  sorrow — when  to  the  one  we  are  grown 
the  most  indulgent,  and  of  the  other  have  the 
most  need?  Alban,  that  girl,  if  her  heart  were 
really  won — her  wild  nature  wisely  mastered — 
gently  guided — would  make  a  true,  prudent, 
loving,  admirable  wife — " 

"  Heavens !"  cried  Alban  Morley. 
"To  such  a  husband,"  pursued  Darrell,  un- 
heeding the   ejaculation,   "as — Lionel  Haugh- 
ton.     What  say  you?" 

"Lionel  —  oh,  I  have  no  objection  at  all  to 
that ;  but  he's  too  young  yet  to  think  of  marriage 
— a  mere  boy.  Besides,  if  you  yourself  marry, 
Lionel  could  scarcely  aspire  to  a  girl  of  Miss 
Vyvyan's  birth  and  fortune." 

"Ho,  not  aspire!  That  boy,  at  least,  shall 
not  have  to  woo  in  vain  from  the  want  of  for- 
tune. The  day  I  marry — if  ever  that  day  come 
—  I  settle  on  Lionel  Haughton  and  his  heirs 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


167 


five  thousand  a  year;  and  if,  with  gentle  blood, 
vouth,  good  looks,  and  a  heart  of  gold,  that  for- 
tune does  not  allow  him  to  aspire  to  any  girl 
whose  hand  he  covets,  I  can  double  it,  and  stiU 
be  rich  enoiagh  to  buy  a  superior  companion  in  j 
Honoria  Vipont — "  j 

MoRLET.  '•  Don't  say  buy — "  i 

Darrell.  "  Ay,  and  still  be  young  enough  to 
catch  a  butterfly  in  Lady  Adela  —  sdll  be  bold 
enough  to  cliain  a  panther  in  Flora  Yyv}-an. 
Let  the  world  know — your  world  in  each  nook 
of  its  gaudy  auction  mart — that  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton  is  no  pauper  cousin  —  no  penniless  fortune- 
hunter.  I  wish  that  world  to  be  kind  to  him 
while  he  is  yet  young,  and  can  enjoy  it.  Ah, 
Morlev,  Pleasure,  like  Punishment,  hobbles  aft- 
er us,  'pede  claudo.  What  would  have  delighted 
us  yesterday  does  not  catch  us  up  till  to-morrow, 
and  yesterday's  pleasure  is  not  the  morrow's. 
A  pennvworth  of  sugar-plums  would  have  made 
our  eyes  sparkle  when  we  were  scrawling  pot- 
hooks' at  a  prepai-ator}-  school,  but  no  one  gave 
us  sugar-plums  then.  Now,  every  day  at  dessert 
France  heaps  before  us  her  daintiest  sugar-plums 
in  gilt  bonhonnieres.  Do  you  ever  covet  them? 
I  never  do.  Let  Lionel  "have  his  sugar-plunis 
in  time.  And  as  we  talk,  there  he  comes.  Li- 
onel, how  are  you  ?" 

"I  resign  you  to  Lionel's  charge  now,"  said 
the  Colonel,  glancing  at  his  watch.  '■  I  have  an 
engagement  —  troublesome.  Two  silly  friends 
of  mine  have  been  quarreling — high  words — in 
an  age  when  duels  are  out  of  the  question.  I 
have  promised  to  meet  another  man,  and  draw 
up  the  form  for  a  mutual  apology.  High  words 
are  so  stupid  nowadays.  Xo  option  but  to 
swallow  them  up  again  if  they  were  as  high  as 
steeples.  Adieu  for  the  present.  We  meet  to- 
night at  Lady  Dulcett's  concert  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Darrell ;  "  I  promised  Miss  Vy- 
vyan  to  be  there,  and  keep  her  from  disturbing 
the  congregation.  You,  Lionel,  will  come  with 
me." 

Lionel  (embarrassed).  "Xo;  you  must  ex- 
cuse me.  I  have  long  been  engaged  elsewhere." 
"That's  a  pity,"  said  the  Colonel,  gravely. 
"  Lady  Dulcett'sconcert  is  just  one  of  the  places 
where  a  young  man  should — be  seen."  Colonel 
Morley  waved  his  hand  mth  his  usual  languid 
elegance,  and  his  hack  cantered  off  with  him, 
stately  as  a  charger,  easy  as  a  rocking-horse. 

"Unalterable  man,"  said  Darrell,  as  his 
eye  followed  the  horseman's  receding  figure. 
''Through  all  the  mutations  on  Time's  dusty 
high  road — stable  as  a  milestone.  Just  what 
Alban  Morley  was  as  a  school-boy  he  is  now; 
and  if  mortal  span  were  extended  to  the  age  of 
the  patriarchs,  just  what  Alban  Morley  is  now 
Alban  Morley  would  be  a  thousand  years  hence. 
I  don't  mean  externally,  of  course ;  wrinkles  will 
come — cheeks  will  fade.  But  these  are  trifles ; 
man's  body  is  a  garment,  as  Socrates  said  before 
me,  and  every  seven  years,  according  to  the 
physiologists,  man  has  a  new  suit,  fibre  and  cu- 
ticle, from  top  to  toe.  The  interior  being  that 
wears  the  clothes  is  the  same  in  Alban  Morley. 
Has  he  loved,  hated,  rejoiced,  suffered  ?  Where 
is  the  sign  ?  Not  one.  At  school,  as  in  life,  do- 
ing nothing,  but  decidedly  somebody — respected 
by  small  boys,  petted  by  big  boys — an  authority 
with  all.  Never  getting  honors — arm  and  arm 
with  those  who  did ;  never  in  scrapes— advising 


those  who  were;  imperturbable,  immovable, 
calm  above  mortal  cares  as  an  Epicurean  deitv. 
What  can  wealth  give  that  he  has  not  got  ?  In 
the  houses  of  the  richest  he  chooses  his  room. 
Talk  of  ambition,  talk  of  power — he  has  their  re- 
wards without  an  eftbrt.  True  prime  minister 
of  all  the  realm  he  cares  for ;  Good  Society  has 
not  a  vote  against  him — he  transacts  its  affairs, 
he  knows  its  secrets — he  wields  its  patronage. 
Ever  requested  to  do  a  favor  —  no  man  great 
enough  to  do  him  one.  Incorruptible,  yet  versed 
to  a  fraction  in  each  man's  price ;  impeccable, 
yet  confident  in  each  man's  foibles ;  smooth  as 
silk,  hard  as  adamant ;  impossible  to  wound, 
vex,  annoy  him — but  not  insensible ;  thorough- 
ly kind.  Dear,  dear  Alban  I  Nature  never  pol- 
ished a  finer  gentleman  out  of  a  solider  block 
of  man  I"  Darrell's  voice  quivered  a  little  as  he 
completed  in  earnest  affection  the  sketch  begun 
in  playful  irony,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  thought,  he  resumed  lightly, 

"But  I  wish  you  to  do  me  a  favor,  Lionel. 
Aid  me  to  repair  a  fault  in  good  breeding,  of 
which  Alban  Morley  would  never  have  been 
guilty.  I  have  been  several  days  in  London, 
and  not  yet  called  on  your  mother.  Will  you 
accompany  me  now  to  her  house  and  present 
me?" 

"Thank  you,  thank  you!  you  will  make  her 
so  proud  and  happy  ;  but  may  I  ride  on  and  pre- 
pare her  for  your  visit?" 

"  Certainly ;  her  address  is — " 

"  Gloucester  Place,  No.  — ." 

"  I  will  meet  vou  there  in  half  an  hour." 


CHAPTER  n. 

"Let  Observation,  wi:h  expansive  view, 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Pern," 

and  Observation  will  every  where  find,  indispensable 

to  the  happiness  of  woman,  A  Visitisg  Acqcaixta>-ce. 

Lionel  knew  that  Mrs.  Haughton  would  that 
day  need  more  than  usual  forewarning  of  a  visit 
from  Mr.  Darrell.  For  the  evening  of  that  day 
Mrs.  Haughton  proposed  "to  give  a  party." 
When  ilrs.  Haughton  gave  a  party,  it  was  a  se- 
rious affair.  A  notable  and  bustling  honse^sife, 
she  attended  herself  to  each  preparatory  detail. 
It  was  to  assist  at  this  party  that  Lionel  had  re- 
signed Lady  Dulcett's  concert.  The  young  man, 
reluctantly'acquiescing  in  the  arrangements  by 
which  Alban  Morley  had  engaged  him  a  lodging 
of  his  own,  seldom  or  never  let  a  day  pass  with- 
out gratifying  his  mother's  proud  heart  by  an 
hour  or  two  spent  in  Gloucester  Place,  often  to 
the  forfeiture  of  a  pleasant  ride,  or  other  tempt- 
ing excursion,  with  gay  comrades.  Difficult  in 
London  life,  and  at  the  fuU  of  its  season,  to  de- 
vote an  hour  or  two  to  visits,  apart  from  the  track 
chalked  out  bv  one's  very  mode  of  existence — 
difficult  to  cut  off  an  hour  so  as  not  to  cut  up  a  day. 
And  Mrs.  Haughton  was  exacting— nice  in  her 
choice  as  to  the  exact  sfice  in  the  day.  She 
took  the  primeof  the  joint.  She  liked  her  neigh- 
bors to  see  the  handsome,  elegant,  young  man 
dismount  from  his  charger,  or  descend  from  his 
cabriolet,  just  at  the  witching  hour  when  Glouces- 
ter Place  was  fullest.  Did  he  go  to  a  levee,  he 
must  be  sure  to  come  to  her  before  he  changed 
his  dress,  that  she  and  Gloucester  Place  might 
admire  him  in  uniform.     Was  he  going  to  dine 


168 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


at  some  very  great  house,  he  must  take  her  in 
his  way  (though  no  street  could  be  more  out  of 
his  way),  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  say  in 
the  parties  to  which  she  herself  repaiied,  ''There 
is  a  orreat  dinner  at  Lord  So-and-so's  to-day; 
mv  son  called  on  me  before  he  went  there.  If 
he  had  been  disengaged,  I  should  have  asked 
permission  to  bring  him  here." 

Not  that  Mrs.  Haughton  honestly  designed, 
nor  even  wished,  to  draw  the  young  man  from 
the  dazzling  vortex  of  high  life  into  her  own  lit- 
tle currents  of  dissipation.  She  was  much  too 
proud  of  Lionel  to  think  that  her  friends  were 
grand  enough  for  him  to  honor  tlieir  houses  by 
his  presence.  She  had  in  this,  too,  a  lively  rec- 
ollection of  her  lost  Captain's  doctrinal  views  of 
the  great  world's  creed.  The  Captain  had  flour- 
ished in  the  time  when  Impertinence,  installed 
by  Brummell,  though  her  influence  was  waning, 
still  schooled  her  oligarchs,  and  maintained  the 
etiquette  of  her  court;  and  even  when  his  me- 
salliance and  his  debts  had  cast  him  out  of  his 
native  sj;here,  he  lost  not  all  the  original  bright- 
ness of  an  exclusive.  In  moments  of  connubial 
confidence,  when  owning  his  past  errors,  and 
tracing  to  his  sympathizing  Jessie  the  causes  of 
his  decline,  he  would  say,  '"Tis  not  a  man's 
birth,  nor  his  fortune,  that  gives  him  his  place 
in  society — it  depends  on  his  conduct,  Jessie. 
He  must  not  be  seen  bowing  to  snobs,  nor  should 
his  enemies  track  him  to  the  haunts  of  vulgari- 
ans. I  date  my  fall  in  life  to  dining  with  a  hor- 
rid man  who  lent  me  £100,  and  lived  in  L^pper 
Baker  Street.  His  wife  took  my  arm  from  a 
place  they  called  a  drawing-room  (the  Captain 
as  he  spoke  was  on  a  fourth  floor),  to  share  some 
unknown  food  which  they  called  a  dinner  (the 
Captain  at  that  moment  would  have  welcomed  a 
rasher).  The  woman  went  about  blabbing — the 
thing  got  wind — for  the  first  time  my  character 
received  a  soil.  A\niat  is  a  man  without  char- 
acter? and  character  once  sullied,  Jessie,  a  man 
becomes  reckless.  Teach  my  boy  to  beware  of 
the  first  false  step — no  association  with /jar  t-enas. 
Don't  cry,  Jessie — I  don't  mean  that  he  is  to 
cut  you — relations  are  quite  different  from  other 
people — nothing  so  low  as  cutting  relations.  I 
continued,  for  instance,  to  visit  Guy  Darrell, 
though  he  lived  at  the  back  of  Holborn,  and  I 
actually  saw  him  once  in  brown  beaver  gloves. 
But  he  was  a  relation.  I  have  even  dined  at 
his  house,  and  met  odd  people  there — people 
who  lived  also  at  the  back  of  Holbora.  But  he 
did  not  ask  me  to  go  to  their  houses,  and  if  he 
had,  I  must  have  cut  him." 

By  reminiscences  of  this  kind  of  talk  Lionel 
was  saved  from  any  design  of  ]Mrs.  Haughton's 
to  attract  his  orbit  into  tlie  circle  within  which 
she  herself  moved.  He  must  come  to  the  par- 
ties she  gave — illumine  or  awe  odd  people  there. 
That  was  a  proper  tribute  to  maternal  pride. 
But  had  they  asked  him  to  their  parties,  she 
would  have  been  the  first  to  resent  such  a  lib- 
erty. 

Lionel  found  Mrs.  Haughton  in  great  bustle. 
A  gardener's  cart  was  before  the  street-door. 
Men  were  bringing  in  a  grove  of  evergreens,  in- 
tended to  border  the  stair-case,  and  make  its  ex- 
iguous ascent  still  more  difficult.  Tlie  refresh- 
ments were  already  laid  out  in  the  dining-room. 
Mrs.  Haughton,  with  scissors  in  hand,  was  cut- 
ting flowers  to  fill  the  eperyne,  but  darling  to 


and  fro,  like  a  dragon-fly,  from  the  dining-room 
to  the  hall,  from  the  flowers  to  the  evergi-eens. 

"  Dear  me,  Lionel,  is  that  you  ?  Just  tell  me, 
you  who  go  to  all  those  grandees,  whether  the 
ratafia-cakes  should  be  opposite  to  the  sponge- 
cakes, or  whether  they  would  not  go  better — 
thus — at  cross-corners?" 

"My  dear  mother,  I  never  observed — I  don't 
know.  But  make  haste — take  oft"  that  apron — 
have  these  doors  shut — come  up  stairs.  IVIr. 
Darrell  will  be  here  very  shortly.  I  have  ridden 
on  to  prepare  you." 

"Mr.  Dan-ell — to-datI — How  could  yon  let 
him  come?  Oh,  Lionel,  how  thoughtless  you 
are !  You  should  have  some  respect  for  your 
mother — I  am  your  mother.  Sir." 

"Yes,  my  own  dear  mother — don't  scold — I 
could  not  help  it.  He  is  so  engaged,  so  sought 
after ;  if  I  had  put  him  oft'  to-day  he  might 
never  have  come,  and — " 

"  Never  have  come !  Who  is  Mr.  Darrell,  to 
give  himself  such  airs  ? — Only  a  lawyer,  after 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Haughton,  with  majesty. 

'•  Oh,  mother,  that  speech  is  not  Mke  you.  He 
is  our  benefactor — our — " 

"  Don't,  don't  say  more — I  was  verv  wrong — 
quite  wicked — only  my  temper,  Lionel  dear. 
Good  Mr.  Darrell  I  I  shall  be  so  happy  to  see 
him — see  him,  too,  in  this  house  that  I  owe  to 
him — see  him  by  your  side  I  I  think  I  shall  fall 
down  on  my  knees  to  him." 

And  her  eyes  began  to  stream. 

Lionel  kissed  the  tears  away  fondly.  '•  That's 
my  own  mother  now  indeed — now  I  am  proud 
of  you,  mother ;  and  how  well  you  look  I — I  am 
proud  of  that  too." 

"Look  well  I — I  am  not  fit  to  be  seen,  this 
figure — though  perhajjs  an  elderly  quiet  gentle- 
man like  good  Mr.  Darrell  does  not  notice  ladies 
much.  John,  John,  make  haste  with  those 
plants.  Gracious  me  !  you've  got  your  coat  otf! 
— put  it  on — I  expect  a  gentleman — I'm  at 
home,  in  the  front  drawing-room — no — that's 
all  set  out — the  back  drawing-room,  John.  Send 
Susan  to  me.  Lionel,  do  just  look  at  the  sup- 
per-table ;  and  what  is  to  be  done  with  the 
flowers,  and — " 

The  rest  of  ]Mrs.  Haughton's  voice,  owing  to 
the  rapidity  of  her  ascent,  which  aflPected  the 
distinctness  of  her  utterance,  was  lost  in  air. 
She  vanished  at  culminating  point — within  her 
chamber. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


Mrs.  Haughton  at  home  to  Guy  DarrelL 

TnA>-K.s  to  Lionel's  actinty,  the  hall  was  dis- 
encumbered— the  plants  hastily  stmved  away — 
the  parlor  closed  on  the  festive  preparations — 
and  the  footman  in  his  livery  waiting  at  the  door 
— when  Mr.  Darrell  anived.  Lionel  himself 
came  out  and  welcomed  his  benefactor's  footstep 
across  the  threshold  of  the  home  which  the  gen- 
erous man  had  provided  for  the  widow. 

If  Lionel  had  some  secret  misgivings  as  to  the 
result  of  this  interview,  they  were  soon  and  most 
happily  dispelled.  For,  at  the  sight  of  Guy 
Darrell  leaning  so  affectionately  on  her  son's 
arm,  jMrs.  Haughton  mechanically  gave  herself 
up  to  the  impulse  of  her  own  warm,  grateful, 
true  woman's  heart.     And  her  bound  forward 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


169 


— her  seizure  of  Darrell's  hand — her  first  fer- 
vent blessing — her  after  words,  simple  but  elo- 
quent with  feeling — made  that  heart  so  trans- 
parent, that  Darrell  looked  it  through  with  re- 
spectful eyes. 

Mrs.  Haughton  was  still  a  pretty  woman,  and 
with  much  of  that  delicacy  of  form  and  outline 
which  constitutes  the  gentility  of  person.  She 
had  a  sweet  voice  too,  except  when  angry.  Her 
defects  of  education,  of  temper,  or  of  conven- 
tional polish,  were  not  discernible  in  the  over- 
flow of  natural  emotion.  Darrell  had  come  re- 
solved to  be  pleased,  if  possible.  Pleased  he 
was,  much  more  than  he  had  expected.  He 
even  inly  accepted  for  the  deceased  Captain  ex- 
cuses which  he  had  never  before  admitted  to 
himself.  The  linen-draper's  daughter  was  no 
coarse  presuming  dowdy,  and  in  her  candid  rush 
of  gratitude  there  was  not  that  underbred  ser- 
vility "which  Darrell  had  thought  perceptible  in 
her  epistolary  compositions.  There  was  elegance 
too,  void  both  of  gaudy  ostentation  and  penuri- 
ous thrift,  in  the  furniture  and  arrangements  of 
the  room.  The  income  he  gave  to  her  was  not 
spent  with  slatternly  waste  or  on  tawdry  gew- 
gaws. To  ladies  in  general,  Darrell's  manner 
was  extremely  attractive — not  the  less  winning 
because  of  a  certain  gentle  shyness  which,  im- 
plying respect  for  those  he  addressed,  and  a 
mode-t  undervaluing  of  his  o\vn  merit,  conveyed 
compliment  and  soothed  self-love.  And  to  that 
lady  in  especial  such  gentle  shyness  was  the 
happiest  good-breeding. 

In  short,  all  went  off  without  a  hitch,  till,  as 
Darrell  was  taking  leave,  Mrs.  Haughton  was 
remin -ed  by  some  evil  genius  of  her  evening 
party,  and  her  very  gratitude,  longing  for  some 
opportunity  to  requite  obligation,  prompted  her 
to  invite  the  kind  man  to  whom  the  facility  of 
giving  parties  was  justly  due.  She  had  never 
realized  to  herself,  despite  all  that  Lionel  could 
say,  the  idea  of  Darrell's  station  in  the  world 
— a  lawyer  who  had  spent  his  youth  at  the 
back  of  Holborn,  whom  the  stylish  Captain  had 
deemed  it  a  condescension  not  to  cut,  m.ight  in- 
deed become  very  rich ;  but  he  could  never  be 
the  fashion.  "Poor  man,"  she  thought,  "he 
must  be  very  lonely.  He  is  not,  like  Lionel,  a 
young  dancing  man.  A  quiet  little  party,  with 
people  of  his  own  early  rank  and  habits,"  would 
be  more  in-  his  way  than  those  grand  places  to 
which  Lionel  goes.  I  can  but  ask  him — I  ought 
to  ask  him.  What  would  he  say  if  I  did  not  ask 
him  ?  Black  ingratitude  indeed,  if  he  were  not 
asked:"  All  these  ideas  rushed  through  her 
ipind  in  a  breath,  and  as  she  clasped  Darrell's 
extended  hand  in  both  her  own,  she  said — "I 
have  a  little  party  to-night!"  And  paused — 
Darrell  remaining  mute,"  and  Lionel  not  sus- 
pecting what  was  to  ensue,  she  continued: 
"There  may  be  some  good  music  —  yonn"- 
friends  of  mine — sing  charmingly — Italian  1"' 

Dan-ell  bowed.     Lionel  began  to  shudder. 

"  And  if  I  might  presume  to  think  it  would 
amuse  you,  :Mr.  Darrell,  oh,  I  should  be  so 
happy  to  see  you  1 — so  happy  I" 

"  Would  you?"  said  Darrell,  briefly.  "  Then 
I  should  be  a  churl  if  I  did  not  come.  Lionel 
will  escort  me.  Of  course,  you  expect  him 
too." 

'•  Yes,  indeed.  Though  he  has  so  many  fine 
places  to  go  to — and  it  can't  be  exactly  what 


i  he  is  used  to — yet  he  is  such  a  dear  good  bov' 
,  that  he  gives  up  all  to  gratify  his  mother." 
j      Lionel,  in  agonies,  turned  an  uniilial  back, 
I  and  looked    steadily  out  of  the  window ;    but 
Darrell,  far  too  august  to  take  offense  where 
I  none  was  meant,  only  smiled  at  the  implied 
i  reference  to  Lionel's   superior  demand  in  the 
fashionable  world,  and  replied,  without  even  a 
touch  of  his  accustomed  ironv — "  And  to  grati- 
fy his  mother  is  a  pleasure  l"  thank  vou  for  in- 
viting me  to  share  with  him." 

More  and  more  at  her  ease,  and  charmed 
with  having  obeyed  her  hospitable  impulse, 
Mrs.  Haughton,  following  Darrell  to  the  land- 
ing-place, added — 

•'  And  if  yon  like  to  play  a  quiet  rubber — " 

'•  I  never  touch  cards.  I  abhor  the  verv  name 
of  them,  ma'am,"  intemipted  Darrell,"  some- 
what less  gracious  in  his  tones. 

He  mounted  his  horse ;  and  Lionel,  breaking 
from  Mrs.  Haughton,  who  was  assurinir  him 
that  ^Ir.  Darrell  was  not  at  all  what  she  ex- 
pected, but  really  quite  the  gentleman — nay,  a 
much  grander  gentleman  than  even  Colonel 
Morley — regained  his  kinsman's  side,  looking 
abashed  and  discomfited.  Dan-ell,  with  the 
kindness  which  his  fine  quick  intellect  enabled 
him  so  felicitously  to  apply,  hastened  to  reUeve 
the  young  guardsman's  mind. 

"I  like  your  mother  much — very  much."  said 
he,  in  his  most  melodious  accents.  '-Good 
boy !  I  see  now  why  you  gave  up  Lady  Dulcett. 
Go  and  take  a  canter  by  yourself,  or  with  youn- 
ger friends,  and  be  sure  that  you  call  on  me,  so 
that  we  may  be  both  at  Mrs.  Haughton's  bv  ten 
o'clock.  I  can  go  later  to  the  concen  if  I  feel 
inclined." 

He  waved  his  hand,  wheeled  his  horse,  and 
trotted  off  toward  the  fair  suburban  lanes  that 
still  proffer  to  the  denizens  of  London  glimpses 
of  niral  fields,  and  shadows  from  quiet  hedge- 
rows. He  wished  to  be  alone;  the  sight  of 
^Irs.  Haughton  had  revived  recollections  of  by- 
gone days — memory  linking  memory  in  painful 
chain — gay  talk  with  his  younger  school-fellow 
— that  wild  Charlie  now  in  his  grave — his  ovra 
laborious  youth,  resolute  aspirings,  secret  sor- 
rows— and  the  strong  man  felt  the  want  of  that 
solitary  self-comipune,  without  which  self-con- 
quest is  unattainable. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Mrs.  Haughton  at  horne  miscellaneously.  Little  partie* 
are  useful  in  bringing  people  together.  One  never 
knows  whom  one  may  meet. 

Great  kingdoms  grow  out  of  small  begin- 
nings. Mrs.  Haughton's  social  circle  was  de- 
scribed from  a  humble  centre.  On  coming  into 
possession  of  her  easy  income,  and  her  house  in 
Gloucester  Place,  she  was  naturally  seized  with 
the  desire  of  an  appropriate  "visiting  acquaint- 
ance." The  accomplishment  of  that  desire  had 
been  deferred  a  while  by  the  excitement  of 
Lionel's  departure  for  Paris,  and  the  immense 
TEMPTATiox  to  whicli  the  attentions  of  the  spu- 
rious Mr.  Courtenay  Smith  had  exposed  her 
widowed  solitude;  but  no  sooner  had  she  re- 
covered from  the  shame  and  anger  with  which 
she  had  discarded  that  showy  impostor,  happily 


170 


WHAT  WTXL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


in  time,  than  the  desire  became  tlie  more  keen  ; 
because  the  good  lady  felt  that,  with  a  mind  so 
active  and  restless  as  hers,  a  visiting  acquaint-  | 
ance  might  be  her  best  preservative  from  that 
sense  of  loneliness  which  disposes  widows  to 
lend  the  incautious  ear  to  adventurous  wooers. 
After  her  experience  of  her  own  weakness  in 
listening  to  a  sharper,  and  with  a  shudder  at 
her  escape,  Mrs.  Haughton  made  a  firm  resolve 
never  to  give  her  beloved  son  a  father-in-law. 
No,  she  would  distract  her  thoughts — she  would 
have  a  visiting  acqcaintance.  She  com- 
menced by  singling  out  such  families  as  at 
various  times  had  been  her  genteelest  lodgers — 
now  lodging  elsewhere.  She  informed  them  by 
polite  notes  of  her  accession  of  consequence  and 
fortune,  which  she  was  sure  they  would  be  hap- 
py to  hear ;  and  these  notes,  left  with  the  card 
of  "  Mrs.  Houghton,  Gloucester  Place,"  neces- 
sarily produced  respondent  notes  and  corre- 
spondent cards.  Gloucester  Place  then  pre- 
pared itself  for  a  party.  The  ci-devant  lodgers 
urbanely  attended  the  summons.  In  their  turn 
they  gave  parties.  Mrs.  Haughton  was  invited. 
Fi'om  eacli  such  party  she  bore  back  a  new 
draught  into  her  "  social  circle."  Thus,  long 
before  the  end  of  five  years,  Mrs.  Haughton  had 
attained  her  object.  She  had  a  "  visiting  ac- 
quaintance !"  It  is  true  that  she  was  not  par- 
ticular ;  so  that  there  was  a  new  somebody  at 
whose  house  a  card  could  be  left,  or  a  morning 
call  achieved — who  could  help  to  fill  her  rooms, 
or  whose  rooms  she  could  contribute  to  fill  in 
turn,  she  was  contented.  She  was  no  tuft-hunt- 
er. She  did  not  care  for  titles.  She  had  no  visions 
of  a  column  in  the  Morning  Post.  She  wanted, 
kind  lady,  only  a  vent  for  the  exubei'ance  of  her 
social  instincts ;  and  being  proud,  she  rather 
liked  acquaintances  who  looked  up  to,  instead  of 
looking  down  on  her.  Thus  Gloucester  Place 
was  invaded  by  tribes  not  congenial  to  its  natu- 
ral civilized  atmosphere.  Hengists  and  Horsas, 
from  remote  Anglo-Saxon  districts,  crossed  the 
intervening  channel,  and  insulted  the  British 
nationality  of  that  salubrious  district.  To  most 
of  such  immigrators  Mrs.  Haughton,  of  Glouces- 
ter Place,  was  a  personage  of  the  highest  dis- 
tinction. A  few  others  of  prouder  status  in  the 
world,  though  they  owned  to  themselves  that 
there  was  a  sad  mixture  at  Mrs.  Haughton's 
house,  still,  once  seduced  there,  came  again  — 
being  persons  who,  however  independent  in  for- 
tune, or  gentle  by  blood,  had  but  a  small  "  vis- 
iting acquaintance"  in  town  ;  fresh  from  eco- 
nomical colonization  on  the  Continent,  or  from 
distant  provinces  in  these  three  kingdoms.  Mrs. 
Haughton's  rooms  were  well  lighted.  There  was 
music  for  some,  wliist  for  others,  tea,  ices,  cakes, 
and  a  crowd  for  all. 

At  ten  o'clock — -the  rooms  already  nearly  fill- 
ed, and  Mrs.  Haugliton,  as  she  stood  at  the  door, 
anticipating  with  joy  that  hapjjy  hour  when  the 
stair-case  would  become  inaccessible — the  head 
attendant,  sent  with  the  ices  from  the  neighlior- 
ing  confectioner,  announced,  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  Mr.  Haughton — Mr.  Uarrell." 

At  that  latter  name  a  sensation  thrilled  the 
assembly — the  name  so  much  in  every  one's 
mouth  at  that  period,  nor  least  in  the  mouths 
of  the  great  middle  class,  on  whom — though  the 
polite  may  call  them  "  a  sad  mixture,"  cabinets 
depend — could  not  fail  to  be  familiar  to  the  cars 


of  Mrs.  Haughton's  "visiting  acquaintance." 
The  interval  between  his  announcement  and  his 
ascent  from  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room  was 
busily  filled  up  by  murmured  questions  to  the 
smiling  hostess,  "  Darrell !  what!  the  Darrell ! 
Guy  Darrell !  greatest  man  of  the  day !  A  con- 
nection of  yours  ?  Bless  me,  you  don't  say  so  ?" 
Mrs.  Haughton  began  to  feel  nen-ous.  Was  Li- 
onel righf  ?  Could  the  man  who  had  only  been 
a  lawyer  at  the  back  of  Holborn  really  be,  now, 
such  a  very,  very  great  man  —  greatest  man  of 
the  day  ?     Nonsense  ! 

"Ma'am" — said  one  pale,'puiF-cheeked,  flat- 
nosed  gentleman,  in  a  very  large  white  waist- 
coat, who  was  waiting  by  her  side  till  a  vacancy 
in  one  of  the  two  whist-tables  should  occur — 
"Ma'am,  I'm  an  Enthusiastic  admirer  of  Mr. 
Darrell.  You  s.ay  he  is  a  connection  of  yours  ? 
Present  me  to  him." 

Mrs.  Haughton  nodded  flutteringly,  for,  as  the 
gentleman  closed  his  request,  and  tapped  a  large 
gold  snuif-box,  Darrell  stood  before  her — Lionel 
close  at  his  side,  looking  positively  sheepish. 
The  great  man  said  a  few  civil  words,  and  was 
gliding  into  the  room  to  make  way  for  the  press 
behind  him,  when  he  of  the  white  waistcoat, 
touching  Mrs.  Haughton's  arm,  and  staring  Dar- 
rell full  in  the  face,  said,  very  loud:  "In  these 
anxious  times  public  men  dispense  with  cere- 
mony. I  crave  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Darrell." 
Thus  pressed,  poor  Mrs.  Haughton,  without  look- 
ing up,  muttered  out,  "  Mr.  Adolphus  Poole — 
Mr.  Darrell,"  and  turned  to  welcome  fresh 
comers. 

"Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Mr.  Poole,  bowing  to  the 
ground,  "  this  is  an  honor." 

Darrell  gave  the  speaker  one  glance  of  his 
keen  eye,  and  thought  to  himself — "If  I  were 
still  at  the  bar,  I  should  be  sorry  to  hold  a  brief 
for  that  fellow."  However,  he  retm-ned  the  bow 
formally,  and,  bowing  again  at  the  close  of  a 
highly  complimentary  address  with  which  Mr. 
Poole  followed  up  his  opening  sentence,  express- 
ed himself  "much  flattered,"  and  thought  he 
had  escaped ;  but  wherever  he  went  through  the 
crowd,  Mr.  Poole  contrived  to  follow  him,  and 
claim  his  notice  by  remarks  on  the  aft'airs  of  the 
day — the  weather — the  funds — the  crops.  At 
length  Darrell  perceived,  sitting  aloof  in  a  cor- 
ner, an  excellent  man,  whom  indeed  it  surprised 
him  to  see  in  a  London  drawing-room,  but  who, 
many  years  ago,  when  Darrell  was  canvassing 
the  enlightened  constituency  of  Ouzelford,  had 
been  on  a  visit  to  the  chairman  of  his  committee 
— an  influential  trader — and  having  connections 
in  the  town — and,  being  a  very  high  character, 
had  done  him  good  service  in  the  canvass.  Dar- 
rell rarely  forgot  a  face,  and  never  a  service. 
At  any  time  he  would  have  been  glad  to  see  the 
worthy  man  once  more,  but  at  that  time  he  was 
grateful  indeed. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  bluntly,  to  Mr.  Poole ; 
"but  I  see  an  old  friend."  He  moved  on,  and 
thick  as  the  crowd  had  become,  it  made  way 
with  respect,  as  to  royalty,  for  the  distinguished 
orator.  The  buzz  of  admiration  as  he  passed — 
louder  than  in  drawing-rooms  more  refined — 
would  have  had  sweeter  music  than  Grisi's  most 
artful  quaver  to  a  vainer  man — nay,  once  on  a 
time  to  him.  But — sugar-plums  come  too  late ! 
He  gained  the  corner,  and  roused  the  solitary 
sitter. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


171 


"My  dear  Mr.  Hartopp,  do  yoii  not  remember 
me — Guy  Darrell  ?" 

"  Mr.  Darrell  I"  cried  the  ex-mayor  of  Gates- 
boro'  rising,  "  who  could  think  that  you  would 
remember  me  f 

"What!  not  remember  those  ten  stubborn 
voters,  on  whom,  all  and  singly,  I  had  lavished 
my  powers  of  argument  in  vain?  You  came, 
and  with  the  brief  words,  '  John — Ned — Dick — 
oblige  me — vote  for  Darrell  I'  the  men  were  con- 
vinced— the  votes  won.  That's  what  I  call  elo- 
quence"— {sotto  voce — "  Confound  that  fellow  ! 
still  after  me !" — Aside  to  Hartopp) — "Oh  1  may 
I  ask  who  is  that  Mr. — what's  his  name — there 
— in  the  white  waistcoat?" 

"  Poole,"  answered  Hartopp.  "  Who  is  he, 
Sir  ?  A  speculative  man.  He  is  connected  with 
a  new  Company — I  am  told  it  answers.  Will- 
iams (that's  my  foreman — a  very  long  head  he 
has  too)  has  taken  shares  in  the  Company,  and 
wanted  me  to  do  the  same,  but  'tis  not  in  my 
way.  And  ilr.  Poole  may  be  a  very  honest  man, 
but  he  does  not  impress  me  with  that  idea.  I 
have  grown  careless ;  I  know  I  am  liable  to  be 
taken  in — I  was  so  once — and  therefore  I  avoid 
'  Companies'  upon  principle — especially  when 
they  promise  thirty  per  cent.,  and  work  copper 
mines — Mr.  Poole  has  a  copper  mine." 

"And  deals  in  brass — you  may  see  it  in  his 
face !  But  you  are  not  in  town  for  good,  Mr. 
Hartopp  ?  If  I  remember  right,  you  were  set- 
tled at  Gatesboro'  when  we  last  met." 

"And  so  1  am  still — or  rather  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. -  I  am  gradually  retiring  from  business, 
and  grown  more  and  more  fond  of  farming.  But 
I  have  a  family,  and  we  live  in  enlightened  times, 
when  children  require  a  finer  education  than 
their  parents  had.  Mrs.  Hartopp  thought  my 
daughter  Anna  Maria  was  in  need  of  some  '  fin- 
ishing lessons' — very  fond  of  the  harp  is  Anna 
Maria — and  so  we  have  taken  a  house  in  Lon- 
don for  six  weeks.  That's  Mrs.  Hartopp  yon- 
der, with  the  bird  on  her  head — bird  of  para- 
dise, I  believe — Williams  says  that  birds  of  that 
kind  never  rest.  That  bird  is  an  exception — it 
has  rested  on  Mrs.  Hartopp's  head  for  hours  to- 
gether, every  evening  since  we  have  been  in 
town." 

"  Significant  of  your  connubial  felicity,  Mr. 
Hartopp." 

' '  May  it  be  so  of  Anna  Maria's.  She  is  to 
be  married  when  her  education  is  finished — 
married,  by-the-by,  to  a  son  of  your  old  friend 
Jessop,  ofOuzelford — and  between  you  and  me, 
Mr.  Dan-ell,  that  is  the  reason  why  I  consented 
to  come  to  town.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  would 
have  a  daughter  finished  unless  there  was  a  hus- 
band at  hand  who  undertook  to  be  responsible 
for  the  results." 

"  You  retain  your  wisdom,  Mr.  Hartopp ;  and 
I  feel  sure  that  not  even  your  fair  partner  could 
have  brought  you  up  to  London  unless  you  had 
decided  on  the  expediency  of  coming.  Do  you 
remember  that  I  told  you  the  day  you  so  ad- 
mirably settled  a  dispute  in  our  committee-room, 
'It  was  well  you  were  not  bom  a  king,  for  you 
would  have  been  an  irresistible  tyrant.'  " 

"  Hush  I  hush  !"  whispered  Hartopp  in  great 
alarm,  "  if  Mrs.  Hartopp  should  hear  you  I  What 
an  observer  you  are.  Sir!  I  thought  /  was  a 
judge  of  character — but  I  was  once  deceived. 
I  dare  say  yon  never  were." 


"Y'ou  mistake,"  answered  DaiTell,  wincing, 
"?/oM  deceived:     How?" 

"  Oh,  a  long  story,  Sir.  It  was  an  elderly 
man — the  most  agreeable,  interesting  compan- 
ion— a  vagabond  nevertheless — and  such  a  pret- 
ty bewitching  little  girl  with  him,  his  grand- 
child. I  thought  he  might  have  been  a  wild 
harum-scarum  chap  in  his  day,  but  that  he  had 
a  true  sense  of  honor" — (Darrell,  wholly  uninter- 
ested in  this  narrative,  suppressed  a  yawn,  and 
wondered  when  it  would  end).  "Only  think, 
Sir,  just  as  I  was  saying  to  myself,  '  I  know  char- 
acter— I  never  was  taken  in,'  down  comes  a 
smart  fellow — the  man's  o^\ti  son — and  tells  me 
— or  rather  he  sufll'ers  a  lady  who  comes  with  him 
to  tell  me — that  this  chai-ming  old  gentleman  of 
high  sense  of  honor  was  a  returned  convict — 
been  transported  for  robbing  his  employer." 

Pale,  breathless,  Darrell  listened,  not  unheed- 
ing now.     "What  was  the  name  of — of — " 

"  The  comict  ?  He  called  himself  Chapman, 
but  the  son's  name  was  Losely — Jasper." 

"Ah!"  faltered  Darrell,  recoiling,  "and  you 
spoke  of  a  little  girl  ?" 

"Jasper  Losely's  daughter ;  he  came  after  her 
with  a  magistrate's  warrant.  The  old  miscreant 
had  earned  her  off,  to  teach  her  his  own  swin- 
dling ways,  I  suppose.  Luckily  she  was  then  in 
my  charge.  I  gave  her  back  to  her  father,  and 
the  very  respectable-looking  lady  he  brought 
with  him.     Some  relation,  I  presume?" 

"What  was  her  name,  do  you  remember  ?" 

"Crane." 

"Crane!  Crane!"  muttered  Darrell,  as  if 
trying  in  vain  to  tax  his  memorv'  with  that  name. 
"  So  he  said  the  child  was  his  daughter — are 
you  sure?" 

"  Oh,  of  course  he  said  so,  and  the  lady  too. 
But  can  you  be  acquainted  with  them,  Sir  ?" 

"I?  no!  Strangers  to  me  except  by  rej^ute. 
Liars — infamous  liars !  But  have  the  accom- 
plices quarreled — I  mean  the  son  and  fatlier — 
that  the  father  should  be  exposed  and  denounced 
by  the  son  ?" 

"I  conclude  so.  I  never  saw  them  again. 
But  you  believe  the  father  really  was,  then,  a 
felon,  a  convict — no  excuse  for  him — no  extenu- 
ating circumstances  ?  There  was  something  in 
that  man,  Mr.  Darrell,  that  made  one  love  him 
— positively  love  him ;  and  when  I  had  to  teU 
him  that  I  had  given  up  the  child  he  trusted  to 
my  charge,  and  saw  his  grief,  I  felt  a  criminal 
myself." 

Darrell  said  nothing,  but  the  character  of  his 
face  was  entirely  altered — stem,  hard,  relent- 
less— the  face  of  an  inexorable  judge.  Hartopp, 
lifting  his  eyes  suddenly  to  that  countenance, 
recoiled  in  awe. 

"You  think  I  was  a  criminal !"  he  said,  pite- 
ously. 

"I  think  we  are  both  talking  too  much,  Mr. 
Hartopp,  of  a  gang  of  miserable  swindlers,  and 
I  advise  you  to  dismiss  the  whole  remembrance 
of  intercourse  with  any  of  them  from  your  hon- 
est breast,  and  never  to  repeat  to  other  ears  the 
tale  you  have  poured  into  mine.  Men  of  honor 
should  crush  down  the  very  thought  that  ap- 
proaches them  to  knaves !" 

Thus  saying,  Dairell  moved  off  with  abrupt 
rudeness,  and  passing  quickly  back  through  the 
crowd,  scarcely  noticed  Mrs.  Haughton  by  a  re- 
treating nod,  nor  heeded  Lionel  at  all,  but  hur- 


172 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


ried  down  the  stairs.  He  was  impatiently  search- 
ing for  his  cloak  in  the  hack  parlor,  when  a  voice 
behind  said,  "  Let  me  assist  you,  Sir — do ;"  and 
turning  round  with  petulant  quickness,  he  be- 
held again  Mr.  Adolphus  Poole.  It  requires  an 
habitual  intercourse  with  equals  to  give  perfect 
and  invariable  control  of  temper  to  a  man  of  ir- 
ritable nerves  and  frank  character;  and  though, 
where  Darrell  really  liked,  he  had  much  sweet 
forbearance,  and  where  he  was  indifferent,  much 
stately  courtesy,  yet,  when  he  was  offended,  he 
could  be  extremely  uncivil.  "  Sir,"  he  cried, 
almost  stamping  his  foot,  "your  importunities 
annoy  me  ;  I  request  you  to  cease  them." 

"Oh!  I  ask  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Poole, 
with  an  angry  growl.  "  I  have  no  need  to  force 
myself  on  any  man.  But  I  beg  you  to  believe 
that  if  I  presumed  to  seek  your  acquaintance, 
it  was  to  do  you  a  service,  Sir — yes,  a  private 
service.  Sir."  He  lowered  his  voice  into  a  whis- 
per, and  laid  his  finger  on  his  nose — "There's 
one  Jasper  Losely,  Sir — eh?  Oh,  Sir,  I'm  no 
mischief-maker.  I  respect  family  secrets.  Per- 
haps I  might  be  of  use,  perhaps  not." 

"Certainly  not  to  me,  Sir,"  said  Darrell, 
flinging  the  cloak  he  had  now  found  across  his 
shoulders,  and  striding  from  the  house.  When 
he  entered  his  carriage,  the  footman  stood  wait- 
ing for  orders.  Darrell  was  long  in  giving  them. 
"Any  where  for  half  an  hour — to  St.  Paul's, 
then  home." 

But  on  returning  from  this  objectless  plunge 
into  the  city,  Darrell  pulled  the  check-string — 
"  To  Belgrave  Square — Lady  Dulcett's." 

The  concert  was  half  over;  but  Flora  Vyvyan 
had  still  guarded,  as  she  had  promised,  a  seat 
beside  herself  for  Darrell,  by  lending  it  for  the 
present  to  one  of  her  obedient  vassals.  Her 
face  brightened  as  she  saw  Darrell  enter  and 
approach.  The  vassal  surrendered  the  chair. 
Darrell  appeared  to  be  in  the  highest  spirits ; 
and  I  firmly  believe  that  he  was  striving  to  the 
utmost  in  his  power — what  ? — to  make  himself 
agreeable  to  Flora  Vyvyan  ?  No ;  to  make  Flora 
Vyvyan  agreeable  to  himself.  The  man  did  not 
presume  that  a  fair  young  lady  could  be  in  love 
with  him ;  perhaps  he  believed  that,  at  his  years, 
to  be  impossible.  But  he  asked  what  seemed 
much  easier,  and  was  much  harder — he  asked 
to  be  himself  in  love. 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  is  asserted  by  those  learned  men  who  have  devoted 
their  lives  to  the  study  of  the  manners  and  habits  of 
insect  society,  that  when  a  spider  has  lost  its  last  web, 
having  exhausted  all  the  glutinons  matter  wherewith 
to  spin  another,  it  still  protracts  its  innocent  existence 
by  obtruding  its  nippers  on  some  less  warlike  but  more 
respectable  spider,  possessed  of  a  convenient  home  and 
an  airy  larder.  Observant  moralists  have  noticed  tlic 
same  peculiarity  in  the  Man-Iiater,  or  Pocket-Canni- 
bal. 

Eleven  o'clock  a.m.  Samuel  Adolphus  Poole, 
Esq.,  is  in  his  parlor — the  house  one  of  those 
new  dwellings  which  yearly  spring  up  north  of 
the  Kegent's  Park — dwellings  that,  attesting  the 
eccentricity  of  the  national  character,  task  tlie 
fancy  of  the  architect  and  the  gravity  of  the  be- 
holder— each  tenement  so  tortured  into  contrast 
with  the  other,  that,  on  one  little  rood  of  ground, 
all  ages  seem  blended,  and  all  races  encamped. 


No.  1  is  an  Egyptian  tomb! — Pharaohs  may 
repose  there !  No.  2  is  a  Swiss  chalet — William 
Tell  may  be  shooting  in  its  garden  !  Lo !  the 
severity  of  Doric  columns  —  Sparta  is  before 
you !  Behold  that  Gothic  porch — you  are  rapt 
to  the  Norman  days!  Ha!  those  Elizabethan 
mullions  Sidney  and  Raleigh,  rise  again!  Ho! 
the  trellises  of  China — come  forth,  Confucius 
and  Commissioner  Yeh !  Passing  a  few  paces, 
Ave  are  in  the  land  of  the  Zegri  and  Abence- 
rage-- 

"  Land  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor." 

Mr.  Poole's  house  is  called  Alhambra  Villa ! 
Jloorish  verandas — plate-glass  windows,  with 
cusped  heads  and  mahogany  sashes — a  garden 
behind,  a  smaller  ona  in  front — stairs  ascending 
to  the  door-way  under  a  Saracenic  portico,  be- 
tween two  pedestaled  lions  that  resemble  poo- 
dles— the  whole  new  and  lustrous — in  semblance 
stone,  in  substance  stucco — cracks  in  the  stucco 
denoting  "settlements."  But  the  house  being 
let  for  ninety-nine  years — relet  again  on  a  run- 
ning lease  of  seven,  fourteen,  and  twenty-one — 
the  builder  is  not  answerable  for  duration,  nor 
the  original  lessee  for  repairs.  Take  it  alto- 
gether, than  Alhambra  Villa  masonry  could  de- 
vise no  better  type  of  modern  taste  and  metro- 
politan speculation. 

J\Ir.  Poole,  since  we  s.aw  him,  between  four 
and  five  years  ago,  has  entered  the  matrimonial 
state.  He  has  married  a  lady  of  some  money, 
and  become  a  reformed  man.  He  has  eschewed 
the  turf,  relinquished  belcher  neckcloths  and 
Newmarket  coats — dropped  his  old  bachelor  ac- 
quaintances. When  a  man  marries  and  reforms 
— especially  when  marriage  and  reform  are  ac- 
companied with  increased  income,  and  settled 
respectably  in  Alhambra  Villa — relations,  before 
estranged,  tender  kindly  overtures  ;  the  world, 
before  austere,  becomes  indulgent.  It  was  so 
with  Poole — no  longer  Dolly.  Grant  that  in 
earlier  life  he  had  fallen  into  bad  ways,  and, 
among  equivocal  associates,  he  had  been  led  on 
by  that  taste  for  sporting  which  is  a  manly  though 
a  perilous  characteristic  of  the  true-born  English- 
man. He  who  loves  horses  is  liable  to  come  in 
contact  with  blacklegs.  The  racer  is  a  noble 
animal ;  but  it  is  his  misfortune  that  the  better 
his  breeding  the  worse  his  company.  Grant  that 
in  the  stables  Adolphus  Samuel  Poole  had  picked 
np  some  wild  oats — he  had  sown  them  now.  By- 
gones were  by-gones.  He  had  made  a  very  pru- 
dent marriage.  Mrs.  Poole  was  a  sensible  wo- 
man— had  rendered  him  domestic,  and  would 
keep  him  straight !  His  uncle  Samuel,  a  most 
worthy  man,  had  found  him  that  sensible  wo- 
man, and,  having  found  her,  had  paid  his  neph- 
ew's debts,  and  adding  a  round  sum  to  the  lady's 
fortune,  had  seen  that  the  whole  was  so  tightly 
settled  on  wife  and  children  that  Poole  had  the 
tender  satisfaction  of  knowing  that,  happen  what 
might  to  himself,  those  dear  ones  were  safe ;  nay, 
that  if,  in  the  reverses  of  fortune,  he  should  be 
compelled  by  persecuting  creditors  to  fly  his  na- 
tive shores,  law  could  not  impair  the  competence 
it  had  settled  upon  Mrs.  Poole,  nor  destroy  her 
blessed  privilege  to  share  that  competence  with 
a  beloved  spouse.  Insolvency  itself,  thus  pro- 
tected by  a  marriage-settlement,  realizes  the 
sublime  security  of  virtde  immortalized  by  the 
Roman  Muse : 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  "V^^TH  IT  ? 


173 


"Repnlsae  nescia  sordid^, 

Intaminatis  fiilget  honoribus; 

Nee  sumit  aut  ponit  secures 

Arbitrio  popularis  aurse." 

Mr.  Poole  was  an  active  man  in  the  parish 
Tcstry — he  was  a  sound  politician — he  subscribed 
to  public  charities — he  attended  public  dinners 
— he  had  votes  in  half  a  dozen  public  institu- 
tions— he  talked  of  the  public  interests,  and 
'called  himself  a  public  man.  He  chose  his  as- 
sociates among  gentlemen  in  business — specula- 
tive, it  is  true,  but  steady.  A  joint-stock  com- 
pany was  set  up ;  he  obtained  an  official  station 
at  its  board,  coupled  with  a  salary — not  large, 
indeed,  but  still  a  salary. 

"The  money,"  said  Adolphus  Samuel  Poole, 
"  is  not  my  object ;  but  I  like  to  have  something 
to  do."  I  can  not  say  how  he  did  something, 
but  no  doubt  somebody  was  done. 

Mr.  Poole  was  in  his  parlor,  reading  letters 
and  sorting  papers,  before  he  departed  to  his 
office  in  the  West  End.  INIrs.  Poole  entered, 
leading  an  infant  who  had  not  yet  learned  to 
walk  alone,  and  denoting,  by  an  interesting  en- 
largement of  shape,  a  kindly  design  to  bless  that 
infant,  at  no  distant  period,  with  a  brother  or 
sister,  as  the  case  might  be. 

"  Come  and  kiss  Pa,  Johnny,"  said  she  to  the 
infant. 

"  Mrs.  Poole,  I  am  busy,"  growled  Pa. 

"  Pa's  busy — working  hard  for  little  Johnny. 
Johnny  will  be  the  better  for  it  some  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Poole,  tossing  the  infant  half  up  to  the 
ceiling,  in  compensation  for  the  loss  of  the 
paternal  kiss. 

"  ■Mrs.  Poole,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"May  I  hire  Jones's  brougham  for  two  hours 
to-day  to  pay  visits?  There  are  a  great  many 
cards  we  ought  to  leave;  is  there  any  place 
where  I  should  leave  a  card  for  you,  lovey — any 
person  of  consequence  you  were  introduced  to 
at  Mrs.  Haughton"3  last  night?  That  great 
man  they  were  all  talking  about,  to  whom  vou 
seemed  to  take  such  a  fancy,  Samuel,  duck — " 

"Do  get  out!  that  man  insulted  me,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Insulted  you !     No  ;  you  never  told  me." 

"  I  did  tell  you  last  night  coming  home." 

"Dear  me,  I  thought  you  meant  that  Mr. 
Hartopp." 

"Well,  he  almost  insulted  me,  too.  Mrs. 
Poole,  you  are  stupid  and  disagreeable.  Is  that 
all  you  have  to  say  ?" 

"  Pa's  cross,  Johnny  dear !  poor  Pa ! — people 
have  vexed  Pa,  Johnny — naughty  people.  We 
must  go,  or  we  shall  vex  him  "too." 

Such  heavenly  sweetness  on  the  part  of  a  for- 
bearing wife  would  have  softened  Tamburlane. 
Poole's  sullen  brow  relaxed.  If  women  knew 
how  to  treat  men,  not  a  husband,  nnhenpecked, 
would  be  found  from  Indos  to  the  Pole !  And 
Poole,  for  all  his  surly  demeanor,  was  as  com- 
pletely governed  by  that  angel  as  a  bear  by  his 
keeper. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Poole,  excuse  me.  I  own  I  am 
out  of  sorts  to-day — give  me  little  Johnnv — there 
(kissing  the  infant,  who  in  return  makes  a  di(T 
at  Pa's  left  eye,  and  begins  to  cry  on  finding 

that  he  has  not  succeeded  in  digging  it  out) 

take  the  brougham.  Hush,  Johnny — hush — 
and  you  may  leave  a  card  for  me  at  Mr.  Peck- 
ham's,  Harley  Street.    My  eye  smarts  horri- 


bly ;  that  baby  will  gouge  me  one  of  these 
days." 

Mrs.  Poole  has  succeeded  in  stilling  the  in- 
fant, and  confessing  that  Johnny's  fingers  are 
extremely  strong  for  his  age — but,  adding,  that 
babies  will  catch  at  whatever  is  very  bright  and 
beautiful,  such  as  gold  and  jewels,  and  Mr. 
Poole's  eyes,  administers  to  the  wounded  orb  so 
soothing  a  lotion  of  pity  and  admiration  that 
Poole  growls  out  quite  mildly — "  Nonsense,  blar- 
ney— by-the-by,  I  did  not  say  this  morning  that 
you  should  not  have  the  rosewood  chifFoniere." 

"  No,  you  said  you  could  not  afford  it,  duck ; 
and  when  Pa  says  he  can't  afford  it.  Pa  must 
be  the  judge — must  not  he,  Johnny  dear?" 

"But,  perhaps,  I  can  afford  it.  Yes,  you  may 
have  it — yes,  I  say,  you  shall  have  it.  Don't 
forget  to  leave  that  card  on  Peckham — he's  a 
moneyed  man.  There's  a  ring  at  the  bell,  who 
is  it?     Run  and  see." 

JNIrs.  Poole  obeyed  with  great  activity,  con- 
sidering her  interesting  condition.  She  came 
back  in  half  a  minute. 

"Oh,  my  Adolphus!  oh,  my  Samuel!  it  is 
that  dreadful-looking  man  who  was  here  the 
other  evening — staid  with  you  so  long.  I  don't 
like  his  looks  at  all.     Pray,  don't  be  at  home." 

"I  must,"  said  Poole,  turning  a  shade  paler, 
if  that  were  possible.  "  Stop — don't  let  that 
girl  go  to  the  door,  and  you  leave  me."  He 
snatched  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  putting  aside 
the  parlor  maid,  who  had  emerged  from  the 
shades  below  in  order  to  answer  the  'ring,' 
walked  hastily  down  the  small  garden. 

Jasper  Losely  was  stationed  at  the  little  gate. 
Jasper  was  no  longer  in  rags,  but  he  was  coarsely 
clad — clad  as  if  he  had  resigned  all  pretense 
to  please  a  lady's  eye,  or  to  impose  upon  a  West- 
End  tradesman — a  check  shirt — a  rough  pea- 
jacket,  his  hands  buried  in  its  pockets. 

Poole  started  with  well-simulated  surprise. 
"  What,  you  !  I  am  just  going  to  my  office — in 
a  great  hurry  at  present." 

"Hurry  or  not,  I  must  and  will  speak  to  yon," 
said  Jasper,  doggedly. 

"What  now?  then,  step  in  ; — only  remember 
I  can't  give  you  more  than  five  minutes." 

The  rude  visitor  followed  Poole  into  the  back 
parloi",  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

Leaning  his  arms  over  a  chair,  his  hat  still  on 
his  head,  Losely  fixed  his  fierce  eyes  on  his  old 
friend,  and  said  in  a  low,  set,  determined  voice 
— "Now,  mark  me,  Dolly  Poole,  if  you  think  to 
shirk  my  business,  or  throw  me  over,  you'll  find 
yourself  in  Queer  Street.  Have  you  called  on 
Guy  Darrell,  and  put  my  case  to  him,  or  have 
you  not  ?" 

"I  met  Mr.  Darrell  only  last  night,  at  a  very 
genteel  party.  (Poole  deemed  it  pi-udent  not 
to  say  by  whom  that  genteel  party  was  given,  for 
it  will  be  remembered  that  Poole  had  been  Jas- 
per's confidant  in  that  adventurer's  former  de- 
signs upon  Mrs.  Haughton ;  and  if  Jasper  knevr 
that  Poole  had  made  her  acquaintance,  might 
he  not  insist  upon  Poole's  reintroducing  him  as 
a  visiting  acquaintance  ?)  "A  verj-  genteel  par- 
ty," repeated  Poole.  "  I  made  a  point  of  being 
presented  to  Mr.  Darrell,  and  very  polite  he  was 
at  fi.rst." 

"Curse  his  politeness — get  to  the  point." 

"I  sounded  my  way  very  carefully,  as  you 
may  suppose ;  and  when  I  had  got  him  into 


174 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


friendly  chat,  you  understand,  I  began :  Ah  I  my 
poor  Losely,  nothing  to  be  done  there — he  flew 
off  in  a  tangent — as  much  as  desired  me  to 
mind  my  own  business,  and  hold  my  tongue; 
and  upon  my  life,  I  don't  think  there  is  a  chance 
for  you  in  that  quarter." 

"  Very  well^we  shall  see.  Xext,  have  you 
taken  any  steps  to  find  out  the  girl,  my  daugh- 
ter ?" 

"  I  have,  I  assure  you.  But  you  give  me  so 
sli;:;ht  a  clew.  Are  you  quite  sure  she  is  not  in 
America  after  all?" 

"  I  have  told  you  before  that  that  story  about 
America  was  all  bosh!  a  stratagem  of  the  old 
gentleman's  to  deceive  me.  Poor  old  man," 
continued  Jasper,  in  a  tone -that  positively  be- 
trayed feeling — "  I  don't  wonder  that  he  dreads 
and  flies  me ;  yet  I  would  not  hurt  him  more 
than  I  have  done,  even  to  be  as  well  off  as  you 
are — blinking  at  me  from  your  mahogany  perch 
like  a  pet  owl  with  its  crop  full  of  mice.  And 
if  I  would  take  the  girl  from  him,  it  is  for  her 
own  good.  For  if  Dai-rell  could  be  got  to  make 
a  provision  on  her,  and,  through  her,  on  myself, 
why,  of  course,  the  old  man  should  share  the 
benefit  of  it.  And  now  that  these  infernal  pains 
often  keep  me  awake  half  the  night,  I  can't 
always  shut  out  the  idea  of  that  old  man  wan- 
dering about  the  world,  and  dying  in  a  ditch. 
And  that  runaway  girl — to  whom,  I  dare  swear, 
he  would  give  away  his  last  crumb  of  bread — • 
ought  to  be  an  annuity  to  us  both':  Basta,  basta ! 
As  to  the  American  story — I  had  a  friend  at 
Paris,  who  went  to  America  on  a  speculation; 
I  asked  him  to  inquire  about  this  William  Waife 
and  his  grand-daughter  Sophy,  who  were  said  to 
have  sailed  for  New  York  nearly  five  years  ago, 
and  he  saw  the  very  persons — settled  in  New 
Tork — no  longer  under  the  name  of  Waife,  but 
their  true  name  of  Simpson,  and  got  out  from 
the  man  that  they  had  been  induced  to  take 
their  passage  from  England  in  the  name  of 
Waife,  at  the  request  of  a  person  whom  the  man 
would  not  give  up,  but  to  whom  he  said  he  was 
under  obligations.  Perhaps  the  old  gentleman 
had  done  the  fellow  a  kind  turn  in  early  life. 
The  description  of  this  soi  disant  Waife  and  his 
grandchild  settles  the  matter ; — wholly  unlike 
those  I  seek;  so  that  there  is  every  reason  to 
suppose  they  must  still  be  in  England,  and  it 
is  your  business  to  find  them.  Continue  your 
search — quicken  your  wits — let  me  be  better 
pleased  with  your  success  when  I  call  again  this 
day  week — and  meanwhile  four  pounds,  if  you 
please — as  much  more  as  you  like." 

"Why,  I  gave  you  four  pounds  the  other 
day,  besides  six  pounds  for  clothes ;  it  can't  be 
gone." 

"  Every  penny." 

"Dear,  dear!  can't  you  maintain  yourself 
anyhow?  Can't  you  get  any  one  to  play  at 
cards  ?  Four  pounds !  Why,  with  your  talent 
for  whist,  four  pounds  are  a  capital?" 

"  Whom  can  I  play  with  ?  Whom  can  I  herd 
with?  —  Cracksmen  and  pickpockets.  Fit  me 
out ;  ask  me  to  your  own  house ;  invite  your  own 
friends ;  make  up  a  rubber,  and  you  Avill  then 
see  what  I  can  do  with  four  pounds ;  and  may 
go  shares  if  you  like,  as  we  used  to  do." 

"  Don't  talk  so  loud.  Losely,  you  know  very 
well  that  what  you  ask  is  impossible.  I've  turned 
over  a  new  leaf." 


"But  I've  still  got  yonr  handwriting  on  the 
old  leaf." 

"What's  the  good  of  these  stupid  threats? 
If  you  really  wanted  to  do  me  a  mischief, 
where  could  you  go  to,  and  who'd  beUeve 
you  ?" 

"I  fancy  your  wife  would.    I'll  try.    Hillo — " 

"  Stop — stop — stop.  No  row  here,  Sir.  No 
scandal.  Hold  your  tongue,  or  I'll  send  for  the 
police." 

"Do!  Nothing  I  should  like  better.  I'm 
tired  out.  I  want  to  tell  my  own  story  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  and  have  my  revenge  upon  you, 
upon  Darrell,  iipon  all.     Send  for  the  police." 

Losely  threw  himself  at  length  on  the  sofa — 
(new  morocco,  with  spring  cushions) — and  folded 
his  arms.  ^ 

"  You  could  only  give  me  five  minutes — they 
are  gone,  I  fear.  I  am  more  liberal.  I  give 
you  your  own  time  to  consider.  I  don't  care  if 
I  stay  to  dine ;  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Poole  will  excuse 
my  dress." 

"Losely,  you  are  such  a — fellow !  If  I  do  give 
you  the  four  pounds  you  ask,  will  you  promise 
to  shift  for  yourself  somehow,  and  molest  me  no 
more?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  shall  come  once  every  week 
for  the  same  sum.  I  can't  live  upon  less — 
until — " 

"Until  what?" 

"  Until  either  you  get  Mr.  Darrell  to  settle  on 
me  a  suitable  pro\"ision,  or  until  you  place  me  in 
possession  of  my  daughter,  and  I  can  then  be  in 
a  better  condition  to  treat  with  him  myself;  for 
if  I  would  make  a  claim  on  account  of  the  girl,  I 
must  produce  the  girl,  or  he  may  say  she  is 
dead.  Besides,  if  she  be  as  pretty  as  she  was 
when  a  child,  the  very  sight  of  her  might  move 
him  more  than  all  my  talk." 

"And  if  I  succeed  in  doing  any  thing  with 
Mr.  Darrell,  or  discovering  your  daughter,  you 
will  give  up  all  such  letters  and  documents  of 
mine  as  you  say  you  possess  ?" 

"'Say — I  possess!'  I  have  shown  them  to 
you  in  this  pocket-book.  Dolly  Poole — your 
o«Ti  proposition  to  rob  old  Latham's  safe." 

Poole  eyed  the  book,  which  the  ruflian  took 
out  and  tapped.  Had  the  rufiian  been  a  slighter 
man,  Poole  would  have  been  a  braver  one.  As 
it  was — he  eyed  and  groaned.  "Turn  against 
one's  old  crony!  So  unhandsome,  so  unlike 
what  I  thought  you  were  I" 

"  It  is  you  who  would  turn  against  me.  But 
stick  to  Darrell,  or  find  me  my  daughter,  and 
help  her  and  me  to  get  justice  out  of  him;  and 
j'ou  shall  not  only  have  back  these  letters,  but 
I'll  pay  yon  handsomely — handsomely,  Dolly 
Poole.  Zooks,  Sir — I  am  fallen — but  I  am  al- 
ways a  gentleman." 

Therewith  Losely  gave  a  vehement  slap  to  his 
hat,  which,  crushed  by  the  stroke,  improved  his 
general  appearance  into  an  aspect  so  outra- 
geously raffish,  that  but  for  the  expression  of 
his  countenance  the  contrast  between  the  boast 
and  the  man  would  have  been  ludicrous  even  to 
Mr.  Poole.  The  countenance  was  too  dark  to 
permit  laughter.  In  the  dress,  but  the  ruin  of 
fortune — in  the  face,  the  ruin  of  man. 

Poole  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  extended  four 
sovereigns.  Losely  rose  and  took  them  care- 
lessly. "  This  day  week,"  he  said — shook  him- 
self— and  went  his  wav. 


WHAT  "WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

French  tonches  to  the  Three  Vignettes  for  the  Book  of 
Beauty. 

Weeks  passed — the  London  season  was  be- 
ginning—  Darrell  had  decided  nothing  —  the 
prestige  of  his  position  was  undiminished — in 
politics,  perhaps,  higher.  He  had  succeeded  in 
reconciling  some  great  men  ;  he  had  strength- 
ened, it  might  be  saved,  a  jarring  cabinet.  In 
all  this  he  had  shown  admirable  knowledge  of 
mankind,  and  proved  that  time  and  disuse  had 
not  lessened  his  powers  of  perception.  In  his 
matrimonial  designs  Darrell  seemed  more  bent 
than  ever  upon  the  hazard — irresolute  as  ever 
on  the  choice  of  a  partner.  Still  the  choice  ap- 
peared to  be  circumscribed  to  the  fair  three  who 
had  been  subjected  to  Colonel  ^Morlej's  specula- 
tive criticism — Lady  Adela,  Miss  Vipont,  Flora 
Vrn-an.  I\Iuch  j)ro  and  con  might  be  said  in 
respect  to  each.  Lady  Adela  was  so  handsome 
that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  her;  and  that 
is  much  when  one  sees  the  handsome  face  every 
day — provided  the  pleasure  does  not  wear  off. 
She  had  the  reputation  of  a  very  good  temper; 
and  the  expression  of  her  countenance  confirmed 
it.  There,  panegj'ric  stopped ;  but  detraction 
did  not  commence.  What  remained  was  in- 
offensive commonplace.  She  had  no  salient 
attribute,  and  no  ruling  passion.  Certainly  she 
wotild  never  have  wasted  a  thought  on  Mr.  Dar- 
rell, nor  have  discovered  a  single  merit  in  him, 
if  he  had  not  been  quoted  as  a  very  rich  man  of 
high  character  in  search  of  a  wife ;  and  if  her 
father  had  not  said  to  her — "Adela,  Jlr.  Dar- 
rell has  been  greatly  stiiick  with  your  appear- 
ance— he  told  me  so.  He  is  not  young,  but  he 
is  still  a  very  fine-looking  man,  and  you  are 
tnenty-seven.  'Tis  a  greater  distinction  to  be 
noticed  by  a  person  of  his  years  and  position 
than  by  a  pack  of  silly  young  fellows,  who  think 
more  of  their  own  pretty  faces  than  they  would 
ever  do  of  yours.  If  you  did  not  mind  a  little 
disparity  of  years,  he  would  make  you  a  happy 
wife ;  and,  in  the  course  of  nature,  a  widow, 
not  too  old  to  enjoy  hberty,  and  with  a  jointure 
that  might  entitle  you  to  a  still  better  match." 

Darrell,  thus  put  into  Lady  Adela's  head,  he 
remained  there,  and  became  an  idee  fixe.  View- 
ed in  the  light  of  a  probable  husband,  he  was 
elevated  into  an  '■  interesting  man."  She  would 
have  received  his  addresses  with  gentle  com- 
placency ;  and,  being  more  the  creature  of  habit 
than  impulse,  would,  no  doubt,  in  the  intimacy 
of  connubial  life,  have  blessed  him,  or  any  other 
admiring  husband,  with  a  reasonable  modicum 
of  languid  affection.  Nevertheless,  Lady  Adela 
was  an  unconscious  impostor ;  for,  owing  to  a 
mild  softness  of  eye  and  a  susceptibihty  to 
blushes,  a  victim  ensnared  by  her  beautv  would 
be  apt  to  give  her  credit  for' a  nature  far  more 
accessible  to  the  romance  of  the  tender  passions, 
than,  happily  perhaps  for  her  on-n  peace  of  mind, 
she  possessed ;  and  might  flatter  himself  that  he 
had  produced  a  sensation  which  gave  that  soft- 
ness to  the  eye,  and  that  damask  to  the  blush. 

Honoria  Vipont  would  have  been  a  choice  far 
more  creditable  to  the  good  sense  of  so  mature 
a  wooer.  Few  better  specimens  of  a  young  ladv 
brought  up  to  become  an  accomplished  woman 
of  the  world.  She  had  sufiicient  instruction  to 
be  the  companion  of  an  ambitious  man — solid 


i  judgment  to  fit  her  for  his  occasional  addser. 
i  She  could  preside  with  dignity  over  a  statelv 
j  household  —  receive   with    grace    distinguished 
I  guests.     Fitted  to  administer  an  ample  fortune, 
;  ample  fortune  was  necessary  to  the  development 
of  her  excellent  qualities.     If  a  man  of  Dan-ell's 
age  were  bold  enough  to  marr}-  a  young  wife,  a 
safer  -nife  among  the  young  ladies  of  London 
he  could  scarcely  find ;"  for  though  Honoria  was 
\  only  three-aud-twenty,  she  v,as  as  staid,  as  sens- 
ible, and  as  remote  'from  all  girlish  frivolities 
.  as  if  she  had  been  eight-and-thirty.     Certainly, 
.  had  Guy  Darrell  been  of  her  own  years,   his 
fortune  unmade,  his  fame  to  win,  a  lawyer  re- 
^  siding  at  the  back  of  Holborn,  or  a  pettv  squire 
in  the  petty  demesnes  of  Fawley,  he  woiild  have 
had  no  charm  in  the  eves  of  "Honoria  Vipont. 
I  Disparity  of  years  Mas  in  this  case  not  his  draw- 
back but  his  advantage,  since  to  that  disparity 
Darrell  owed  the  established  name  and  the  emi- 
nent station  which  made  Honoria  think  she  ele- 
j  vated  her  own  self  in  preferring  him.     It  is  but 
I  justice  to  her  to  distinguish  here  between  a  wo- 
^  man's  veneration  for  the  attributes  of  respect 
which  a  man  gathers  round  him,  and  the  more 
'  vulgar  sentiment  which  sinks  the  man  altogether, 
'  except  as  the  necessary  fixture  to  be  taken  in 
with  the  general  valuation.     It  is  not  fair  to  ask 
i  if  a  girl  who  entertains  a  preference  for  one  of 
I  our  toiling,  stirring,  ambitious  sex,  who  mav  be 
I  double  her  age,  or  have  a  snub  nose,  but  "who 
looks  dignified  and  imposing  on  a  pedestal  of 
j  state,  whether  she  would  like  him  as  much  if 
I  stripped  of  all  his  accessories,  and  left  unre- 
j  deemed  to  his  baptismal  register  or  unbecoming 
I  nose.     Just  as  well  ask  a  girl  in  love  with  a 
yotmg  Lotharia  if  she  would  like  him  as  much 
!  if  he  had  been  ugly  and  crooked.     The  high 
'  name  of  the  one  man  is  as  much  a  part  of  hnn 
!  as  good  looks  are  to  the  other.     Thus,  though 
[  it  was  said  of  Madame  de  la  Valliere  that  she 
loved  Louis  XIV.  for  himself  and  not  for  his 
j  regal  grandeur,  is  there  a  woman  in  the  world, 
'  however  disinterested,  who  believes  that  ^Madame 
I  de  la  Villiere  would  have  liked  Louis  XPV".  as 
I  much  if  Louis  XIV.  had  been  Mr.  John  Jones ! 
Honoria  would  not  have  bestowed  her  hand  on 
a  brainless,  worthless  nobleman,  whatever  his 
rank  or  wealth.     She  was  above  that  sort  of 
ambition ;  but  neither  would  she  have  married 
the  best-looking  and  worthiest  John  Jones  v.ho 
ever  bore  that  British  appellation,  if  he  had  not 
occupied  the  social  position  which  brought  the 
merits  of  a  Jones  within  range  of  the  eye-glass 
of  a  Vipont. 

Many  girls  in  the  nursery  say  to  their  juve- 
nile confidants,  "  I  will  only  marry  the  man  I 
love."  Honoria  had  ever  said,  '•!  will  only 
marry  the  man  I  respect."  Thus  it  was  her  re- 
spect for  Guj-  Darrell  that  made  her  honor  him 
by  her  preference.  She  appreciated  his  intel- 
lect— she  fell  in  love  with  the  reputation  which 
the  intellect  had  acquired.  And  DaiTcll  might 
certainly  choose  worse.  His  cool  reason  in- 
clined him  much  to  Honoria.  When  Alban 
Morley  argued  in  her  favor  he  had  no  escape 
from  acquiescence,  except  in  the  turns  and 
doubles  of  his  ironical  humor.  But  his  heart 
was  a  rebel  to  his  reason  ;  and  between  you  and 
me,  Honoria  was  exactly  one  of  those  young 
women  by  whom  a  man  of  grave  years  ought  to 
be  attracted,  and  by  whom,  somehow  or  other, 


176 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


he  never  is ;  I  suspect,  because  the  older  we 
grow  the  more  we  love  vouthfulness  of  charac- 
ter. When  Alcides,  havingr  gone  through  all 
the  fatigues  of  life,  took  a  bride  in  Olympus,  he 
ought  to  have  selected  Minen-a,  but  he  chose 
Hebe. 

Will  Darrell  find  J;iis  Hebe  in  Flora  Vyvyan  ? 
Alban  Morley  became  more  and  more  alarmed 
by  that  apprehension.  He  was  shrewd  enough 
to  recognize  in  her  the  girl  of  all  others  formed 
to  glad  the  eye  and  plague  the  heart  of  a  grave 
and  reverend  seigneur.  And  it  might  well  not 
only  flatter  the  vanity,  but  beguile  the  judg- 
ment, of  a  man  who  feared  his  hand  would  be 
accepted  only  for  the  sake  of  his  money,  that 
Flora,  just  at  this  moment,  refused  the  greatest 
match  in  the  kingdom — young  LordVipont,  son 
of  the  new  Earl  of  Montfort  —  a  young  man  of 
good  sense,  high  character,  well-looking  as  men 
go,  heir  to  estates  almost  royal  —  a  young  man 
whom  no  girl  on  earth  is  justified  in  refusing. 
But  would  the  whimsical  creature  accept  Dar- 
rell ?  Was  she  not  merely  making  sport  of  him, 
and  if,  caught  by  her  arts,  he,  sage  and  elder, 
solemnly  offered  homage  and  hand  to  that  belle 
dedaigneuse  who  had  just  doomed  to  despair  a 
comely  young  magnate  with  five  times  his  for- 
tune, would  she  not  hasten  to  make  him  the 
ridicule  of  London  ? 

Darrell  had,  perhaps,  his  secret  reasons  for 
thinking  otherwise,  but  he  did  not  confide  them 
even  to  Alban  Morley.  This  much  only  will 
the  narrator,  more  candid,  say  to  the  reader — 
if  out  of  the  three  whom  his  thoughts  fluttered 
round,  Guy  Darrell  wished  to  select  the  one 
who  wotild  love  him  best  —  love  him  with  the 
whole,  fresh,  unreasoning  heart  of  a  girl  whose 
childish  frowardness  sprung  from  childlike  in- 
nocence—  let  him  dare  the  hazard  of  refusal 
and  of  ridicule ;  let  him  say  to  Flora  Vyvyan, 
in  the  pathos  of  his  sweet,  deep  voice,  "  Come, 
and  be  the  spoiled  darling  of  my  gladdened 
age ;  let  my  life,  ere  it  sink  into  night,  be  re- 
joiced by  the  bloom  and  fresh  breeze  of  the 
morning  1" 

But  to  say  it  he  must  wish  it ;  he  himself 
must  love — love  with  all  the  lavish  indulgence, 
all  the  knightly  tenderness,  all  the  grateful  sym- 
pathizing joy  in  the  youth  of  the  beloved,  when 
youth  for  the  lover  is  no  more,  which  alone  can 
realize  what  we  sometimes  see,  though  loth  to 
own  it — congenial  unions  with  unequal  years. 
If  Darrell  feel  not  that  love,  woe  to  him ;  woe 
and  thrice  .shame  if  he  allure  to  his  hearth  one 
who  might  indeed  be  a  Hebe  to  the  spouse  who 
gave  up  to  her  his  whole  heart  in  return  for 
hers ;  but  to  the  spouse  who  had  no  heart  to 
give,  or  gave  but  the  chips  of  it,  the  Hebe,  in- 
dignant, would  be  worse  than  Erinnys  ! 

All  things  considered,  then,  they  who  •wish 
well  to  Guy  Darrell  must  range  with  Alban 
Morley  in  favor  of  Miss  Honoria  Vipont.  She 
proffering  affectionate  respect,  Darrell  respond- 
ing by  rational  esteem.  So,  perhaps,  Dan-ell 
himself  thought ;  for  whenever  Miss  Vipont  was 
named  he  became  more  taciturn,  more  absorbed 
in  reflection,  and  sighed  heavily,  like  a  man  who 
slowly  makes  up  his  mind  to  a  decision,  wise  but 
not  tempting. 


CHAPTER  YU. 

Containing  much  of  that  information  which  the  wisest 
men  in  the  world  could  not  give,  but  which  the  Au- 
thor can. 

"Darrell,"  said  Colonel  Morley,  "you  re- 
member my  nephew  George  as  a  boy  ?     He  is 
I  now  the  rector  of  Humberston  ;    man-ied  —  a 
I  very  nice  sort  of  woman  —  suits  him.     Hum- 
1  berston  is  a  fine  living ;    but  his  talents  are 
I  wasted  there.     He  preached  for  the  first  time 
in  London  last  year,  and  made  a  considerable 
sensation.     This  year  he  has  been  much  out  of 
town.     He  has  no  church  here  as  yet.     I  hope 
to  get  him  one.     Carr  is  determined  that  he 
shall  be  a  Bishop.     Meanwhile  he  preaches  at 

Chapel  to-ma^Tow.     Come  and  hear  him 

with  me,  and  then  tell  me  frankly  —  is  he  elo- 
quent or  not  ?" 

Dan^ell  had  a  prejudice  against  fashionable 
preachers,  but  to  please  Colonel  Morley  he  went 
to  hear  George.  He  was  agreeably  surprised 
by  the  pulpit  oratory  of  the  young  divine.  It 
j  had  that  rare  combination  of  impassioned  earn- 
1  estness,  with  subdued  tones,  and  decorous  ges- 
!  ture,  which  suits  the  ideal  of  ecclesiastical 
i  eloquence  conceived  by  an  educated  English 
I  Churchman — 

"  Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full." 

I      Occasionally  the  old  defect  in  utterance  was 
I  discernible  ;  there  was  a  gasp  as  for  breath,  or 
I  a  prolonged  dwelling  upon  certain  syllables, 
which,  occurring  in  the  most  animated  passages, 
and  apparently  evincing  the  preachers  struggle 
I  with  emotion,   rather   served  to  heighten  the 
sympathy  of  the  audience.     But  for  the  most 
part  the  original  stammer  was  replaced  by  a  fe- 
:  licitous  pause — the  pause  as  of  a  thoughtful  rca- 
soner,  or  a  solemn  monitor  knitting  ideas,  that 
came  too  quick,  into  method,  or  chastening  im- 
pulse into  disciplined  zeal.     The  mind  of  the 
j  preacher,  thus  not  only  freed  from  trammel,  but 
I  armed  for  victory,  came  forth  with  that  power 
which  is  peculiar  to  an  original  intellect  —  the 
I  power  which   suggests   more   than   it   demon- ' 
'  strates.     He  did  not  so  much  preach  to  his  au- 
j  dience   as  wind   himself   through    unexpected 
;  ways  into  the  hearts  of  the  audience  ;  and  they 
!  who  heard  suddenly  found  their  hearts  preach- 
;  ing  to  themselves.    He  took  for  his  text,  "Cast 
I  down,  but  not  destroyed."    And  out  of  this  text 
I  he  framed  a  discourse  full  of  true  Gospel  ten- 
[  demess,  which  seemed  to  raise  up  comfort  as 
;  the  sanng,  against  despair  as  the  evil,  principle 
I  of  mortal  life.     The  congregation  was  what  is 
I  called  "brilliant"  —  statesmen,  and  peers,  and 
:  great  authors,  and  fine  ladies — people  whom  the 
inconsiderate  believe  to  stand  little  in  need  of 
comfort,  and  never  to  be  subjected  to  despair. 
In  many  an  intent  or  drooping  face  in  that 
brilliant  congregation  might  be  read  a  very  dif- 
ferent tale.     But  Of  all  present  there  was  no 
one  whom  the  discourse  so  moved  as  a  woman, 
who,  chancing  to  pass  that  way,  had  followed 
the  throng  into  the  Chapel,  and"  with  difficulty 
obtained  a  seat  at  the  far  end ;  a  woman  who 
had  not  been  within  the  walls  of  chapel  or  church 
for  long  years  —  a  grim  woman,  in  iron  gray. 
There  she  sate,  unnoticed,  in  her  remote  cor- 
ner ;  and  before  the  preacher  had  done,  her  face 
was  hidden  behind  her  clasped  hands,  and  she 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


177 


was  weeping  such  tears  as  she  had  not  wept 
since  childhood. 

On  leaving  church  Darrell  said  little  more  to 
the  Colonel  than  this  :  "Your  nephew  takes  me 
bv  surprise.  The  Church  wants  such  men.  He 
will  have  a  grand  career,  if  life  be  spared  to 
him."  Then  he  sank  into  a  reverie,  from  which 
he  broke  abrupth' — '•  Your  nephew  was  at  school 
wiih  my  boy.  Had  my  son  lived,  what  had  been 
his  career  ?" 

The  Colonel,  never  encouraging  painful  sub- 
jecis,  made  no  rejoinder. 

"  Bring  George  to  see  me  to-morrow.  I 
shrunk  from  asking  it  before  :  I  thought  the 
sight  of  him  would  too  much  revive  old  sorrows, 
but  I  feel  I  should  accustom  myself  to  face  ev- 
ery memory.     Bring  him." 

The  next  day  the  Colonel  took  George  to 
Darrell's ;  but  George  had  been  pre-engaged 
till  late  at  noon,  and  Darrell  was  just  leaving 
home,  and  at  his  street-door,  when  the  uncle 
and  nephew  came.  They  respected  his  time 
too  much  to  accept  his  offer  to  come  in,  but 
walked  beside  him  for  a  few  minutes,  as  he  be- 
stowed upon  George  those  compliments  which 
ai-e  sweet  to  the  ear  of  rising  men  from  the  lips 
of  those  who  have  risen. 

"I  remember  you,  George,  as  a  boy,"  said 
Darrell,  "  and  thanked  you  then  for  good  advice 
to  a  school-fellow,  who  is  lost  to  your  counsels 
now."  He  faltered  an  instant,  but  went  on  firm- 
ly :  '•  You  had  then  a  slight  defect  in  utterance, 
which,  I  understand  from  your  uncle,  increased 
as  you  grew  older ;  so  that  I  never  anticipated 
for  you  the  fame  that  you  are  achieving.  Orator 
.fit — you  must  have  been  admirably  taught.  In 
the  management  of  your  voice,  in  the  excellence 
of  your  delivery,  I  see  that  you  are  one  of  the 
few  who  deem  that  the  Divine  AVord  should  not 
be  unworthily  nttered.  The  debater  on  beer 
bills  may  be  excused  from  studying  the  orator's 
efiects ;  but  all  that  enforce,  dignify,  adorn, 
make  the  becoming  studies  of  him  who  strives 
by  eloquence  to  people  heaven ;  whose  task  it  is 
to  adjure  the  thoughtless,  animate  the  languid, 
soften  the  callous,  humble  the  proud,  alarm  the 
guilty,  comfort  the  sorrowful,  call  back  to  the 
fold  the  lost.  Is  the  culture  to  be  slovenly 
where  the  glebe  is  so  fertile?  The  only  field 
left  in  modern  times  for  the  ancient  orator's 
sublime  conceptions,  but  laborious  training,  is 
the  Preacher's.  And  I  own,  George,  that  I 
envy  the  masters  who  skilled  to  the  Preacher's 
art  an  intellect  like  yours." 

"Masters,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I  thought  all 
those  elocution  masters  failed  with  you,  George. 
You  cured  and  taught  yourself.  Did  not  you  ? 
No!     AVhy,  then,  who  was  your  teacher?" 

George  looked  very  much  embarrassed,  and, 
attempting  to  answer,  began  horribly  to  stutter. 
Darrell,  conceiving  that  a  preacher  whose 
fame  was  not  yet  confirmed,  might  reasonably 
dislike  to  confess  those  obligations  to  elaborate 
study,  which,  if  known,  might  detract  from  his 
eifect,  or  expose  him  to  ridicule,  hastened  to 
change  the  subject.  "You  have  been  to  the 
country,  I  hear,  George ;  at  your  living,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Xo.  I  have  not  been  there  very  lately; 
traveling  about." 

"Have  you  seen  Lady  Montfort  since  your 
return  ?"  asked  the  Colonel. 
M 


"I  only  retiu-ned  on  Saturday  night.    I  go  to 
,  Lady  Montfort's,  at  Twickenham,  this   even- 
ing." 

!      "  She  has  a  delightful  retreat,"  said  the  Col- 
onel.   "  But  if  she  wish  to  avoid  admiration,  she 
should  not  make  the  banks  of  the  river  her  fa- 
vorite haunt.     I  know  some  romantic  admirers 
who,  when  she  reappears  in  the  world,  may  be 
j  rival  aspirants,  and  who  have  much  taken  to 
rowing    since   Lady   Montfort    has   retired    to 
j  Twickenham.     They  catch  a  glimpse  of  her, 
I  and  return  to  boast  of  it.     But  they  report  that 
:  there  is  a  young  lady  seen  walking  with  her — 
j  an  extremely  pretty  one— who  is  she  ?     People 
I  ask  7ne — as  if  I  knew  every  thing." 

"A  companion,  I  sujjpose,"  said  George,  more 
I  and  more  confused.     "But,  pardon  me,  I  must 
leave  vou  now.    Good-bv,  uncle.    Good-dav,  Mr 
Darrell."  '. 

Darrell  did  not  seem  to  observe  George  take 
leave,  but  walked  on,  his  hat  over  his  brows,  lost 
in  one  of  his  frequent  fits  of  abstracted  gloom. 

"If  my  nephew  were  not  married,"  said  the 
Colonel,   "I  should  regard  his  embarrassment 
with   much   suspicion  —  embarrassed   at   every 
i  point,  from  his  travels  about  the  countiy  to  the 
I  question  of  a  young  lady  at  Twickenham.      I 
wonder  who  that  young  lady  can  be — not  one 
:  of  the  Viponts,  or  I  should  have  heard.     Are 
,  there  any  young  ladies  on  the  Lvndsay  side? — 
Eh,  Darrell  ?" 
[      "What  do  I  care — your  head  runs  on  young 
ladies,"  answered  Darrell,  with  peevish  vivaci- 
ty, as  he  stopped  abruptly  at  Carr  Vipont's  door. 
"And  your  feet  do  not  seem  to  run  from 
them,"  said  the  Colonel;  and,  with  an  ironical 
salute,  walked  away,  while  the  expanding  port- 
als ingulfed  his  friend. 

As  he  sauntered  up  St.  James's  Street,  nod^ 
ding  toward  the  thronged  windows  of  its  various 
clubs,  the  Colonel  suddenly  encountered  Lionel, 
and,  taking  the  young  gentleman's  arm,  said, 
"  If  you  are  not  very  much  occupied,  will  you 
waste  half  an  hour  on  me  ? — I  am  going  home- 
ward." 

Lionel  readily  assented,  and  the  Colonel  con- 
tinued :  "Are  you  in  want  of  your  cabriolet  to- 
day, or  can  you  lend  it  to  me?  I  have  asked  a 
Frenchman,  who  brings  me  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, to  dine  at  the  nearest  restaurant  to  which 
one  can  ask  a  Frenchman.  I  need  not  say  that 
is  Greenwich  ;  and  if  I  took  him  in  a  cabriolet, 
he  would  not  suspect  that  he  was  taken  five  miles 
out  of  town." 

"  Alas !  my  dear  Colonel,  I  have  just  sold  my 
cabriolet." 

"What!  old-fashioned  already  ?  True,  it  has 
been  built  three  months.  Perhaps  the  horse,  too, 
has  become  an  antique  in  some  other  collection 
— silent — imi! — cabriolet  and  horse  both  sold?" 
"Both,"  said  Lionel,  ruefully. 
"Nothing  surprises  me  that  man  can  do," 
said  the  Colonel,  "or  I  should  be  surprised. 
When,  acting  on  Dairell's  general  instructions 
for  your  outfit,  I  bought  that  horse,  I  flattered 
myself  that  I  had  chosen  well.  But  rare  are 
good  horses — rarer  still  a  good  judge  of  them ; 
I  suppose  I  was  cheated,  and  the  brute  proved  a 
screw." 

"The  finest  cab-horse  in  London,  my  dear 
Colonel,  and  every  one  knows  how  proud  I  was 
of  him.    But  I  wanted  money,  and  had  nothing 


178 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


else  that  vrould  bring  the  sum  I  required.  Oh, 
Colonel  Morley,  do  hear  me !" 

"  Certainly,  I  am  not  deaf,  nor  is  St.  James's 
Street.  When  a  man  says,  '  I  have  parted  with 
my  horse  because  I  wanted  money,'  I  advise 
him  to  say  it  in  a  whisper." 

"  I  have  been  imprudent,  at  least  unlucky, 
and  I  must  pay  the  penalty.  A  friend  of  mine 
— that  is,  not  exactly  a  friend,  but  an  acquaint- 
ance— whom  I  see  every  day — one  of  my  own 
set — asked  me  to  sign  my  name  at  Paris  to  a 
bill  at  three  months'  date,  as  his  security.  He 
gave  me  his  honor  that  I  should  hear  no  more 
of  it — he  would  be  sure  to  take  up  the  bill  when 
due — a  man  whom  I  supposed  to  be  as  well  off 
as  myself!  You  will  allow  that  I  could  scarcely 
refuse — at  all  events,  I  did  not.  The  bill  be- 
came due  two  days  ago  ;  my  friend  does  not  pay 
it,  and  indeed  says  he  can  not,  and  the  holder 
of  the  bill  calls  on  me.  He  was  very  civil — of- 
fered to  renew  it — pressed  mc  to  take  my  time, 
etc. ;  but  I  did  not  like  his  manner,  and  as  to 
my  friend.  I  find  that,  instead  of  being  well  off, 
as  I  supposed,  he  is  hard  up,  and  that  I  am  not 
the  first  he  has  got  into  the  same  scrape — not 
intending  it,  I  am  sure.  He's  really  a  veiy  good 
fellow,  and,  if  I  wanted  security,  would  be  it  to- 
morrow, to  any  amount." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it — to  any  amount  I"  said 
the  Colonel. 

"So  I  thought  it  best  to  conclude  the  matter 
at  once.  I  had  saved  nothing  from  my  allow- 
ance, munificent  as  it  is.  I  could  not  have  the 
face  to  ask  Mr.  Darrell  to  remunerate  me  for  my 
own  irajjrudence.  I  should  not  like  to  borrow 
from  my  mother — I  know  it  would  be  incon- 
venient to  her.  I  sold  both  horse  and  cabriolet 
this  morning.  I  had  just  been  getting  the  check 
cashed  when  I  met  you.  I  intend  to  take  the 
monev  mvself  to  the  bill-holder.  I  have  just  the 
sum— £200." 

"The  horse  alone  was  worth  that,"  said  the 
Colonel,  with  a  faint  sigh — "not  to  be  replaced. 
Prance  and  Russia  have  the  pick  of  our  stables. 
However,  if  it  is  sold,  it  is  sold — talk  no  more  of 
it.  I  hate  painful  subjects.  You  did  right  not 
to  renew  the  bill — it  is  opening  an  account  with 
Ruin  ;  and  though  I  avoid  preaching  on  money- 
makers, or,  indeed,  any  other  (preaching  is  my 
nephew's  vocation,  not  mine),  yet  allow  me  to 
extract  from  you  a  solemn  promise  never  again 
to  sign  bills,  nor  to  draw  them.  Be  to  your 
friend  what  you  please  except  security  for  him. 
Orestes  never  asked  Pylades  to  help  him  to  bor- 
row at  fifty  per  cent.  Promise  me — your  word 
of  honor  as  a  gentleman !     Do  you  hesitate  ?" 

"My  dear  Colonel,"  said  Lionel,  frankly,  "I 
do  hesitate.  I  might  promise  not  to  sign  a  mon- 
ey-lender's bill  on  my  own  account,  though  real- 
ly I  think  you  take  rather  an  exaggerated  view 
of  what  is,  after  all,  a  common  occurrence — " 

"Do  I?"  said  the  Colonel,  meekly.  "I'm 
sorry  to  hear  it.  I  detest  exaggeration.  Go  on. 
You  migiit  promise  not  to  ruin  yourself — but  you 
object  to  promise  not  to  help  in  the  ruin  of  your 
friend." 

"That  is  exquisite  irony,  Colonel,"  said  Li- 
onel, ])iqued;  "but  it  does  not  deal  with  the 
difficulty,  which  is  simply  this :  When  a  man 
whom  you  call  friend — whom  you  walk  with, 
ride  with,  dine  with  almost  every  day,  says  to 
you,  '  I  am  in  immediate  want  of  a  few  hun- 


dreds— I  don't  ask  you  to  lend  them  to  me,  per- 
haps you  can't — but  assist  me  to  borrow — trust 
to  my  honor  that  the  debt  shall  not  fall  on  you,' 
why,  then,  it  seems  as  if  to  refuse  the  favor  was 
to  tell  the  man  you  call  friend  that  you  doubt 
his  honor ;  and  though  I  have  been  caught  once 
in  that  way,  I  feel  that  I  must  be  caught  very 
often  before  I  should  have  the  moral  courage  to 
say  '  Xo  I'  Don't  ask  me,  then,  to  promise — be 
satisfied  with  my  assurance  that  in  future,  at 
least,  I  will  be  more  cautious,  and  if  the  loss 
fall  on  mc,  why,  the  worst  that  can  happen  is 
to  do  again  what  I  do  now." 

"Xay,  you  would  not  perhaps  have  anothei 
horse  and  cab  to  sell.  In  that  case,  you  would 
do  the  reverse  of  what  you  do  now — you  would 
renew  the  bill— ^he  debt  would  run  on  like  a 
snow-ball — in  a  year  or  tsvo  you  would  owe,  nol 
hundreds,  but  thousands.  But  come  in — here 
we  are  at  my  door." 

The  Colonel  entered  his  dra^ving-^oom.  A 
miracle  of  exquisite  neatness  the  room  was — 
rather  effeminate,  perhaps,  in  its  attributes  ;  bul 
that  was  no  sign  of  the  Colonel's  tastes,  but  of 
his  popularity  with  the  ladies.  All  those  prettv 
things  were  their  gifts.  The  tapestry  on  the 
chairs  their  work — the  scvre  on  the  consoles — 
the  clock  on  the  mantle-shelf — the  inkstand, 
paper-cutter,  taper-stand  on  the  writing-table — 
their  birthday  presents.  Even  the  white  wool- 
ly jMaltese  dog  that  sprang  from  the  rug  to  wel- 
come him — even  the  flowers  in  the  jardinier — 
even  the  tasteful  cottage-piano,  and  the  verj 
music-stand  beside  it — and  the  card-trays,  piled 
high  with  invitations — were  contributions  from 
the  forgiving  sex  to  the  unrequiting  bachelor. 

Surveying  his  apartment  with  a  coraplacenf 
air,  the  Colonel  sank  into  his  easy  ftuiteuil,  and 
drawing  off'  his  gloves  leisurely,  said — 

"Xo  man  has  more  friends  than  I  have  — 
never  did  I  lose  one — never  did  I  sign  a  bill, 
Your  father  pursued  a  different  policy — he  sign, 
cd  many  bills — and  lost  many  friends." 

Lionel,  much  distressed,  looked  down,  and 
evidently  desired  to  have  done  with  the  subject, 
Xot  so  the  Colonel.  That  shrewd  man,  though 
he  did  not  preach,  had  a  way  all  his  own,  which 
was  perhaps  quite  as  effective  as  any  sermon  by 
a  fashionable  layman  can  be  to  an  impatieni 
youth. 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  Colonel,  "it  is  the  old 
story.  One  alw,ays  begins  by  being  security  to 
a  friend.  The  discredit  of  the  thing  is  familiar- 
ized to  one's  mind  by  the  false  show  of  generous 
confidence  in  another.  Then  wliat  you  have 
done  for  a  friend,  a  friend  should  do  for  you — 
a  hundred  or  two  would  be  useful  now — you  are 
sure  to  repay  it  in  three  months.  To  Youth  the 
Future  seems  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England,  and 
distant  as  the  Peaks  of  Himalaya.  You  pledge 
your  honor  that  in  three  months  you  will  re- 
lease your  friend.  The  three  months  expire. 
To  release  the  one  friend,  you  catch  hold  of  an- 
other— the  bill  is  renewed,  premium  and  inter- 
est thrown  into  the  next  pay-day — soon  the  ac- 
count multiplies,  and  with  it  the'honor  dwindles 
— your  NAME  circulates  from  hand  to  hand  on 
the  back  of  doubtful  paper — your  name,  which, 
in  all  money  transactions,  should  grow  higher 
and  higher  each  year  you  live,  fiilling  down  ev- 
ery month  like  the  shares  in  a  swindling  specu- 
lation.    You  begin  bv  what  you  call  trusting  a 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


179 


friend,  that  is,  aiding  him  to  self-destruction—  .  capital  horseman— knew  the  wavs  of  all  ani- 
buving  him  arsenic  to  clear  his  complexion  ;  .  mals,  fishes,  and  birds ;  I  verilv  be'lieve  he  could 
you  end  by  dragging  all  near  you  into  your  own  ,  have  coaxed  a  pug-dog  to  point,  and  an  owl  to 
abyss,  as  a  drowning  man  would  clutch  at  his  ,  sing.  Void  of  alt  malice,  up  to  all  fun.  Im- 
own  brother.  Lionel  Haughton,  the  saddest  :  agine  how  much  people  would  court,  and  how 
expression  I  ever  saw  in  your  father's  face  was  i  little  they  would  do  for,  a  Willv  of 'that  sort, 
when — when — but  you  shall  hear  the  story."       ;  Do  I  bore  you ?" 

"  Xo,  Sir ;  spare  me.  Since  you  so  insist  on  |  "  On  the  contrar\-,  I  am  sreatlv  interested  " 
it,  I  will  give  the  promise— it  is  enough ;  and  j  "  One  thing  a  Willy,  if  a  Willvcould  be  wise, 
my  father — "  ought  to  do  for  himself— keep  s'im^le.     A  wed- 

''  Was  as  honorable  as  yoa  when  he  first  sign-  '  ded  Willy  is  in  a  false  position?  :Mv  Willv 
ed  his  name  to  a  friend's  bill ;  and  perhaps  wedded— for  love,  too — an  amiable  girl  I  be- 
promised  to  do  so  no  more  as  reluctantly  as  you  :  lieve — (I  never  saw  her;  it  was  lono-'^aft'erward 
do.  You  had  better  let  me  say  on ;  if  I  stop  ;  that  I  knew  Willv)  —  but  as  poor  "as"  himself, 
now,  you  will  forget  all  about  it  by  this  day  I  The  friends  and  relatives  then  said— 'This  is 
twelvemonth ;  if  I  go  on,  you  will  never  forget.  I  serious ;  something  must  be  done  for  Willv.'    It 


There  are  other  examples  besides  your  father, 
I  am  about  to  name  one." 

Lionel  resigned  himself  to  the  operation, 
throwing  his  handkerchief  over  his  face  as  if  he 
had  taken  chloroform. 


was  easy  to  say,  '  something  must  be  done,'  and 
monstrous  difficult  to  do  it.  While  the  relations 
were  consulting,  his  half-sister,  the  Baronet's 
lawful  daughter,  died,  unmarried :  and,  though 
she  had  ignored  'nim  in  life,  left  him  £20(X). 


"When  I  was  young,"  resumed  the  Colonel,  {  'I  have  hit  it  now,'  cried  one  of  the  cousins 
"  I  chanced  to  make  acquaintance  'with  a  man  j '  Willy  is  fond  of  a  countrv  life.  I  will  let  him 
of  infinite  whim  and  humor  ;    fascinating  as  ;  have  a  farm  on  a  nominal  rent,  his  £2000  v.ill 


Darreil  himself,  though  in  a  very  different  way 
We  called  liim  Willy — you  know  the  kind  of 
man  one  calls  by  his  Christian  name,  cordially 
abbreviated — that  kind  of  man  seems  never  to 
be  quite  grown  up ;  and  therefore  never  rises  in 
life.  I  never  knew  a  man  called  Willy  after 
the  age  of  thirty,  who  did  not  come  to  a  melan- 
choly end  I  Willy  was  the  natural  son  of  a  rich, 
helter-skelter,  cleverish,  maddish,  stylish,  raffish, 
four-in-hand  Baronet,  by  a  celebrated  French 
actress.  The  title  is  extinct  now ;  and  so,  I  be- 
lieve, is  that  genus  of  stylish,  raffish,  four-in- 
hand  Baronet.     Sir  Julian  Losely — " 

'  ■  Losely !"'  echoed  Lionel. 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  know  the  name  ?" 

' '  I  never  heard  it  till  yesterday.  I  want  to 
tell  you  what  I  did  hear  then — but  after  your 
story — go  on." 

"  Sir  Julian  Losely  (Willy's  father)  lived  with 


stock  it ;  and  his  farm,  which  is  surrounded  by 
woods,  will  be  a  capital  hunting  meet.  As  lono- 
as  I  hve  Willy  shall  be  mounted.' 

"Willy  took  the  farm,  and  astonished  his 
friends  by  attending  to  it.  It  was  just  begin- 
ning to  answer  when  his  wife  died,  leavmg  him 
only  one  child — a  boy ;  and  her  death  made 
him  so  melancholy  that  he  could  no  longer  at- 
tend to  his  farm.  He  threw  it  up ;  invented  the 
proceeds  as  a  capital,  and  lived  on  tlie  interest 
as  a  gentleman  at  large.  He  traveled  over  Eu- 
rope for  some  time — chiefly  on  foot — came  back, 
having  recovered  his  spirits — resumed  his  old, 
desultory,  purposeless  life  at  different  country- 
houses  ;  and  at  one  of  those  houses  I  and  Charles 
Haughton  met  him.  Here  I  pause,  to  state  that 
Will  Losely  at  that  time  impressed  me  with 
the  idea  that  he  was  a  thoroughly  honest  man. 
Though  he  was  certainly  no  formalist — thouo^h 


the  French  lady  as  his  wife,  and  reared  Willy  j  he  had  lived  with  wild  sets  of  conrivial  scape- 
in  his  house,  with  as  much  pride  and  fondnes"s  {graces  —  though,  out  of  sheer  high  spirits,  he 
as  if  he  intended  him  for  his  heir.  The  poor  i  would  now  and  then  make  conventional  Propri- 
boy,  I  suspect,  got  but  little  regular  education  ;  |  eries  laugh  at  their  own  long  faces  ;  vet.  I  should 
though,  of  course,  he  spoke  his  French  mother's  1  have  said,  that  Bayard  himself —and  Bayard 
tongue  like  a  native ;  and,  thanks  also  perhaps  was  no  saint — could  not  have  been  more  i'nca- 
to  his  mother,  he  had  an  extraordinary  talent  pable  of  a  disloyal,  rascally,  shabby  action. 
for  mimicry  and  acting.  His  father  was  pas-  i  Xay,  in  the  plain 'matter  of  i'ntegritv,  his  ideas 
sionately  fond  of  private  theatricals,  and  ^Yilly  might  be  called  refined,  almost  Quixotic.  If 
had  early  practice  in  that  line.  I  once  saw  him  |  asked  to  give  or  to  lend,  Willy's  hand  was  in  his 
act  Falstaff  in  a  country-house,  and  I  doubt  if  '.  pocket  in  an  instant ;  but  though  thrown  amono- 
Quin  could  have  acted  it  better.  Well,  when  !  rich  men — careless  as  himself— Willv  never  pu" 
Willy  was  still  a  mere  boy,  he  lost  his  mother,    his  hand  into  their  pockets,  never '  borrowed, 


the  actress.  Sir  Julian  married — had  a  legiti- 
mate daughter — died  intestate — and  the  daugh- 
ter, of  course,  had  the  personal  property,  which 
was  not  much ;  the  heir-at-law  got  the  land, 
and  poor  Willy  nothing.     But  Yv'illv  was  a  uni 


never  owed.  He  would  accept  hospitality  — 
make  frank  use  of  your  table,  your  horses,  your 
dogs — but  your  money,  no!  He  repaid  all  he 
took  from  a  host  by  rendering  himself  the  pleas- 
antest  guest  that  host  ever  entertained.      Poor 


versal  favorite  with  his  father's  old  friends—  {  Willy !  I  think  I  see  his  quaint  smile  brimming 
wild  fellows  like  Sir  Julian   himself:    among  |  over  with  sly  sport!    The  sound  of  his  voice  was 
them  there  were  two  cousins,  with  large  coun-  ;  like  a  crv  of  '  half  holidav'  in  a  school-room, 
try-houses,  sporting  men,  and  bachelors.     Thev 
shared  Willy   benveen    them,    and   quarreled 
which  should  have  the  most  of  him.      So  he 
grew  up  to  be  man,  with  no  settled  provision, 
but  always  welcome,  not  only  to  the  two  cous- 
ins, but  at  every  house  in  which,  like  Milton's 
lark,  'he  came  to  startle  the  dull  night' — the 
most  amusing  companion! — a  famous  shot — a 


He  dishonest !  I  should  as  soon  have  suspected 
the  noonday  sun  of  being  a  dark  lantern !  I 
remember,  when  he  and  I  were  walking  home 
from  wild-duck  shooting  in  advance  of  our  com- 
panions, a  short  conversation  between  us  that 
touched  me  greatly,  for  it  showed  that,  under 
all  his  lerity,  there  were  sound  sense  and  right 
feeling.     I  asked  him  about  his  son,  then  a  bov 


180 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


at  school.  '  Why,  as  it  was  the  Christmas  va- 
cation, he  had  refused  our  host's  suggestion  to 
let  the  lad  come  down  there?'  'Ah,'  said  he, 
'  dout  fanc}-  that  I  will  lead  my  son  to  grow  up 
a  scatter-brained  good-for-naught  like  his  father. 
His  society  is  the  joy  of  my  life ;  whenever  I 
have  enough  in  my  pockets  to  afford  myself  that 
joy,  I  go  and  hire  a  quiet  lodging  close  by  his 
school,  to  have  him  with  me  from  Saturday  till 
Monday  all  to  myself — where  he  never  hears 
wild  fellows  call  me  "Willy,"  and  ask  me  to 
mimic.  I  had  hoped  to  have  spent  this  vaca- 
tion with  him  in  tha-t  way,  but  his  school-bill 
was  higher  than  usual,  and  after  paying  it  I 
had  not  a  guinea  to  spare — obliged  to  come 
here  where  they  lodge  and  feed  me  for  nothing ; 
the  boy's  uncle  on  the  mother's  side — a  respect- 
able man  in  business — kindly  takes  him  home 
for  the  holidays ;  but  did  not  ask  me,  because 
his  wife — and  I  don't  blame  her — thinks  I'm 
too  wild  for  a  city  clerk's  sober  household.' 

"I  asked  Will  Losely  what  he  meant  to  do  with 
his  son,  and  hinted  that  I  might  get  the  boy  a 
commission  in  the  army  without  purchase. 

"  'No,'  said  Willy,  'I  know  what  it  is  to  set 
up  for  a  gentleman  on  the  capital  of  a  beggar. 
It  is  to  be  a  shuttlecock  between  discontent  and 
temptation.  I  would  not  have  my  lost  \\"ife's 
son  waste  his  life  as  I  have  done.  He  would 
he  more  spoiled,  too,  than  I  have  been.  The 
handsomest  boy  you  ever  saw — and  bold  as  a 
lion.  Once  in  that  set' — (pointing  over  his 
shoulders  toward  some  of  our  sporting  comrades, 
whose  loud  laughter  every  now  and  then  reached 
our  ears) — '  once  in  that  set  he  would  never  be 
out  of  it —  fit  for  nothing.  I  swore  to  his  mo- 
ther, on  her  death-bed,  that  I  would  bring  him 
up  to  avoid  my  errors  —  that  he  should  be  no 
hanger-on  and  led- Captain!  Swore  to  her 
that  he  should  be  reared  according  to  his  real 
station — the  station  of  his  mother's  kin  (/  have 
no  station) — and  if  I  can  but  see  him  an  honest 
British  trader  —  respectable,  upright,  equal  to 
the  highest — because  no  rich  man's  dependent, 
and  no  poor  man's  jest  —  mv  ambition  will  be 
satisfied.  And  now  you  understand.  Sir,  why 
my  boy  is  not  here.'  You  would  say  a  father 
who  spoke  thus  had  a  man's  honest  stuff  in  him. 
Eh,  Lionel  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  true  gentleman's  heart,  too  I" 

"  So  I  thought ;  yet  I  fancied  I  knew  the 
world  I  After  that  conversation  I  quitted  our 
host's  roof,  and  only  once  or  twice  afterward,  at 
country  houses,  met  William  Losely  again.  To 
say  truth,  his  chief  patrons  and  friends  were  not 
exactly  in  my  set.  But  your  father  continued 
to  see  Willy  pretty  often.  They  took  a  great 
fancy  to  each  other.  Charlie,  you  know,  was 
jovial •'— fond  of  private  theatricals,  too;  in 
short,  they  became  great  allies.  Some  years 
after,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  Charles  Haugh- 
ton,  while  selling  off  his  ]Middlesex  property, 
was  in  immediate  want  of  £1200.  He  could 
get  it  on  a  bill,  but  not  without  security.  His 
bills  were  already  rather  down  in  the  market, 
and  he  had  already  exhausted  most  of  the 
friends  whose  security  was  esteemed  by  accom- 
modators  any  better  than  his  own.  In  an  e^il 
hour  he  had  learned  that  poor  Willy  had  just 
£1500  out  upon  mortgage  ;  and  the  money- 
lender, who  was  lawyer  for  the  property  on 
which  the  mortgage  was,  knew  it  too.     It  was 


on  the  interest  of  this  £1500  that  Willy  lived, 
having  spent  the  rest  of  his  little  capital  in  set- 
tling his  son  as  a  clerk  in  a  first-rate  commer- 
cial house.  Charles  Haughton  went  down  to 
shoot  at  the  house  where  Willy  was  a  guest — 
shot  with  him — drank  with  him — talked  with 
him — proved  to  him,  no  doubt,  that  long  before 
the  three  months  were  over  the  iliddlesex  prop- 
erty would  be  sold ;  the  bill  taken  up,  Willy 
might  trust  to  his  honor.  Willy  did  trust.  Like 
you,  my  dear  Lionel,  he  had  not  the  moral  cour- 
age to  say  '  No.'  Your  father,  I  am  certain, 
meant  to  repay  him ;  your  father  never  in  cold 
blood  meant  tu  defraud  any  human  being  ;  but 
— j'our  father  gambled  !  A  debt  of  honor  at^ji- 
quet  preceded  the  claim  of  a  bill-discounter. 
The  £1200  were  forestalled — your  father  >vas 
penniless.  The  money-lender  came  upon  Wil- 
ly. Sure  that  Charles  Haughton  would  yet  re- 
deem his  promise,  Willy  renewed  the  bill  an- 
other three  months  on  usurious  teiTns ;  those 
months  over,  he  came  to  town  to  find  your  fa- 
ther hiding  between  four  walls,  unable  to  stir 
out  for  fear  of  arrest.  Willy  had  no  option  but 
to  pay  the  money ;  and  when  your  father  knew 
that  it  was  so  paid,  and  that  the  usury  had  swal- 
lowed up  the  whole  of  Willy's  little  capital, 
then,  I  say,  I  saw  upon  Charles  Haughton's 
once  radiant  face  the  saddest  expression  I  ever 
saw  on  mortal  man's.  And  sure  I  am  that  all 
the  joys  your  father  ever  knew  as  a  man  of 
pleasure  were  not  worth  the  agony  and  remorse 
of  that  moment.  I  respect  your  emotion,  Li- 
onel, but  you  begin  as  your  father  began  ;  and 
if  I  had  not  told  you  this  stor)-  you  might  have 
ended  as  your  father  ended." 

Lionel's  face  remained  covered,  and  it  was 
only  by  choking  gasps  that  he  interrupted  the 
Colonel's  narrative.  "  Certainly,"  resumed  Al- 
ban  Morley,  in  a  reflective  tone,  "  Certainly 
that  villain — I  mean  William  Losely,  for  villain 
he  afterward  proved  to  be — had  the  sweetest, 
most  forgiving  temper!  He  might  have  gone 
about  to  his  kinsmen  and  friends  denouncing 
Charles  Haughton,  and  saying  by  what  solemn 
promises  he  had  been  undone.  But  no  !  sucli  a 
story,  just  at  that  moment,  would  have  crushed 
Charles  Haughton's  last  chance  of  ever  holding 
up  his  head  again  ;  and  Chai'les  told  me  (for  it 
was  through  Charles  that  I  knew  the  tale)  that 
Willy's  parting  words  to  him  were, '  Do  not  fret, 
Charlie.  ■  After  all,  my  boy  is  now  settled  in 
life,  and  I  am  a  cat  with  nine  lives,  and  should 
fall  on  my  legs  if  thrown  out  of  a  gan-et  win- 
dow. Don't  fret.'  So  he  kept  the  secret,  and 
told  the  money-lender  to  hold  his  tongue.  Poor 
Willy !  I  never  asked  a  rich  friend  to  lend  me 
money  but  once  in  my  life.  It  was  then.  I 
went  to  Guy  Darrell,  who  was  in  full  prac- 
tice, and  said  to  him,  '  Lend  me  one  thousand 
pounds.  I  may  never  repay  you.'  '  Five  thou- 
sand pounds,  if  you  like  it,'  said  he.  '  One  will 
do.'  I  took  the  money,  and  sent  it  to  Willy. 
Alas  !  he  returned  it,  writing  word  that  '  Prov- 
idence had  been  very  kind  to  him ;  he  had 
just  been  appointed  to  a  capital  pkce,  with  a 
magnificent  salary.  The  cat  had  fallen  on  its 
legs.'  He  bade  nie  comfort  Haughton  with  that 
news.  The  money  went  back  into  Darrell's 
pocket,  and  perhaps  wandered  thence  to  Charles 
Haughton's  creditors.  Now  for  the  appoint- 
ment^.    At  the  country  house,  to  which  Willy 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


181 


had  remnied  destitute,  he  had  met  a  stranger 
(no  relation),  who  said  to  him,  '  You  live  with 
these  people — shoot  their  game — break  in  their 
horses — see  to  their  farms — and  they  give  you 
nothing  I  You  are  no  longer  very  young  —  you 
shouldlay  by  your  little  income,  and  add  to  it. 
Live  with  me,  and  I  will  give  you  £300  a  year. 
I  am  parting  with  my  steward — take  his  place, 
but  be  my  friend.'  William  Losely,  of  course, 
closed  with  the  proposition.  This  gentleman, 
whose  name  was  Gunston,  I  had  known  slight- 
ly in  former  times  (people  say  I  know  every 
body) — a  soured,  bilious,  melancholy,  indolent, 
misanthropical  old  bachelor.  With  a  magnifi- 
cent place  universally  admired,  and  a  large  es- 
tate universally  envied,  he  lived  much  alone, 
ruminating  on  the  bitterness  of  life  and  the  no- 
thingness of  worldly  blessings,  fleeting  Willy 
at  the  country  house  to  which,  by  some  predes- 
tined relaxation  of  misanthi-opy,  he  had  been 
decoyed,  for  the  first  time  for  years  Mr.  Gun- 
ston was  heard  to  laugh.  He  said  to  himself, 
'  Here  is  a  man  who  actually  amuses  me.' 
William  Losely  contrived  to  give  the  misan- 
thrope a  new  zest  of  existence  ;  and  when  he 
found  that  business  could  be  made  pleasant,  the 
rich  man  conceived  an  interest  in  his  own  house, 
gardens,  property.  For  the  sake  of  William's 
merry  companionship  he  would  even  ride  over 
his  farms,  and  actually  carried  a  gun.  ^Mean- 
while  the  property,  I  am  told,  was  really  v^ell 
managed.  Ah !  that  fellow  Willy  was  a  born 
genius,  and  could  have  managed  ever}'  body's 
atFairs  except  his  own.  I  heard  of  all  this  with 
pleasure  (people  say  I  hear  every  thing) — when 
one  day  a  sporting  man  seizes  me  by  the  button 
at  Tattersall's — '  Do  you  know  the  news  ?  Will 
Losely  is  in  prison  on  a  charge  of  robbing  his 
employer !'  " 

■'Eobbing!  incredible!"  exclaimed  LioneL 
"ily  deal"  Lionel,  it  was  after  hearing  that 
news  that  I  establislied  as  invariable  my  grand 
maxim,  A'i7  admirari — never  to  be  astonished  at 
any  thing  1" 

"But  of  course  he  was  innocent?" 
"  On  the  contrary,  he  confessed,  was  commit- 
ted ;  pleaded  guilty,  and  was  transported  1  Peo- 
ple who  knew  Willy  said  that  Gunston  ought  to 
have  declined  to'  drag  him  before  a  magistrate, 
or,  at  the  subsequent  trial,  have  abstained  from 
gi^'ing  evidence  against  him ;  that  Willy  had 
been  till  then  a  faithful  steward  ;  the  whole  pro- 
ceeds of  the  estate  had  passed  through  his  hands ; 
he  might,  in  transactions  for  timber,  have  cheat- 
ed, undetected,  to  twice  the  amount  of  the  alleged 
robberj- ;  it  must  have  been  a  momentary  aber- 
ration of  reason  ;  the  rich  man  should  have  let 
him  otF.  But  I  side  Mith  the  rich  man.  His 
last  belief  in  his  species  was  annihilated.  He 
must  have  been  inexorable.  He  could  never  be 
amused,  never  be  interested  again.  He  was  in- 
exorable and — vindictive." 

•■But  what  were  the  facts? — what  was  the 
evidence?' 

••  Very  little  came  out  on  the  trial ;  because, 
in  pleading  guilty,  the  court  had  merely  to  con- 
sider the  evidence  which  had  sufficed  to  commit 
him.  The  trial  was  scarcely  noticed  in  the  Lon- 
don papers.  William  Losely  was  not  like  a 
man  known  about  town.  His  fame  was  con- 
fined to  those  who  resorted  to  old-fashioned 
country  houses,  chiefly  single  men,  for  the  sake 


of  sport.  But  stay.  I  felt  such  an  interest  in 
the  case  that  I  made  an  abstract  or  precis,  not 
only  of  all  that  appeared,  but  all  that  I  could 
learn  of  its  leading  circumstances.  'Tis  a  habit 
of  mine,  whenever  any  of  my  acquaintances  em- 
broil themselves  with  the  Crown — "  The  Col- 
onel rose,  unlocked  a  small  glazed  book-case, 
selected  from  the  contents  a  JIS.  volume,  re- 
seated himself,  turned  the  pages,  found  the  place 
sought,  and,  reading  from  it,  resumed  his  narra- 
tive. " '  One  evening  Mr.  Gunston  came  to 
William  Losely's  private  apartment.  Losely 
had  two  or  three  rooms  appropriated  to  himself 
in  one  side  of  the  house,  which  was  built  in  a 
quadrangle  round  a  court-yard.  When  Losely 
opened  his  door  to  Mr.  Gunston's  knock,  it 
struck  Jlr.  Gunston  that  his  manner  seemed 
confused.  After  some  talk  on  general  subjects, 
Losely  said  that  he  had  occasion  to  go  to  Lon- 
don next  morning  for  a  few  days  on  private  bus- 
iness of  his  own.  This  annoyed  Mr.  Gunston. 
He  ouserved  that  Losely's  absence  just  then 
would  be  inconvenient.  He  reminded  him  that 
a  tradesman,  who  lived  at  a  distance,  was  com- 
ing over  the  next  day  to  be  paid  for  a  vinery  he 
had  lately  erected,  and  on  the  charge  for  which 
there  was  a  dispute.  Could  not  Losely  at  least 
stay  to  settle  it  ?  Losely  replied,  "  that  he  had 
already,  by  correspondence,  adjusted  the  dis- 
pute, having  suggested  deductions  which  the 
tradesman  had  agi^eed  to,  and  that  Mr.  Gunston 
would  only  have  to  give  a  check  for  the  balance 
— viz.,  £270."  Thereon  Mr.  Gunston  remarked, 
*•  If  you  were  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  my  bills 
for  me  out  of  what  you  receive,  you  would  know 
that  I  seldom  give  checks.  I  certainly  shall  not 
give  one  now,  for  1  have  the  money  in  the  house." 
Losely  observed,  '•  that  is  a  bad  habit  of  yours 
keeping  large  sums  in  your  own  house.  You 
may  be  robbed."  Gunston  answered,  "  Safer 
than  lodging  large  sums  in  a  country  bank. 
Country  banks  break.  My  grandfather  lost 
£1000  by  the  failure  of  a  country  bank ;  and  my 
father,  therefore,  always  took  his  payments  in 
cash,  remitting  them  to  London  from  time  to 
time  as  he  went  thither  himself.  I  do  the  same, 
and  I  have  never  been  robbed  of  a  farthing  that 
I  know  of.  AVho  would  rob  a  great  house  like 
this,  full  of  men-servants  ?"  "  That's  true," 
said  Losely;  "so  if  you  are  sure  you  have  as 
much  by  you,  you  will  pay  the  bill,  and  have 
done  with  it.  I  shall  be  back  before  Sparks  the 
builder  comes  to  be  paid  for  the  new  barns  to 
the  home  farm — that  will  be  £600 ;  but  I  shall 
be  taking  money  for  timber  next  week.  He  can 
be  paid  out  of  that."  Gunstos.  "Xo,  I  will 
pay  Sparks,  too,  out  of  what  I  have  in  my  bu- 
reau ;  and  the  timber-merchant  can  pay  his  debt 
into  my  London  banker's."  Losely.  "  Do  you 
mean  that  you  have  enough  for  both  these  bills 
actually  in  the  house  ?"  Gc^ston".  "  Certain- 
ly, in  the  bureau  in  my  study.  I  don't  know 
how  much  I've  got.  It  may  be  £1500 — it  may 
be  £1700.  I  have  not  counted;  I  am  "such  a 
bad  man  of  business ;  but  I  am  sure  it  is  more 
than  £1-100."  Losely  made  some  jocular  ob- 
sers-ation  to  the  effect  that  if  Gunston  never  kept 
an  account  of  what  he  had,  he  could  never  tell 
whether  he  was  robbed,  and,  therefore,  never 
would  be  robbed ;  since,  according  to  Othello, 

"  He  that  is  robbed,  not  wanting  Trhat  is  stolen, 
Let  him  not  know  it,  and  he's  not  robbed  at  all." 


182 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


After  that,  Losely  became  absent  in  manner,  and 
seemed  impatient  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Gunston,  hint- 
ing that  he  had  the  labor-book  to  look  over,  and 
some  orders  to  write  out  for  the  bailiff,  and  that 
he  should  start  early  the  next  morning.'  " 

Here  the  Colonel  looked  up  from  his  MS.,  and 
said,  episodically,  "Perhaps  you  will  fancy  that 
these  dialogues  are  invented  by  me  after  the 
fashion  of  the  ancient  historians?  Not  so.  I 
give  you  the  report  of  what  passed,  as  Gunston 
repeated  it  verbatim ;  and  I  suspect  that  his 
memory  was  pretty  accurate.  Well"  (here  Al- 
ban  returned  to  his  MS.),  "  'Gunston  left  Willy, 
and  went  into  his  own  study,  where  he  took  tea 
by  himself  When  his  valet  brought  it  in,  he 
told  the  man  that  Mr.  Losely  was  going  to  town 
early  the  next  morning,  and  ordered  the  serv- 
ant to  see  himself  that  coffee  was  served  to  Mr. 
Losely  before  he  went.  The  servant  observed 
"that  Mr.  Losely  had  seemed  much  out  of  sorts 
lately,  and  that  it  was  perhaps  some  unpleasant 
affair  connected  with  the  gentleman  who  had 
come  to  see  him  two  days  before."  Gunston 
had  not  heard  of  such  a  visit.  Losely  had  not 
mentioned  it.  When  the  servant  retired,  Gun- 
ston, thinking  over  Losely's  quotation  respect- 
ing his  money,  resolved  to  ascertain  what  he 
had  in  his  bureau.  He  opened  it,"  examined 
the  drawers,  and  found,  stowed  away  in  differ- 
ent places  at  different  times,  a  larger  sum  than 
he  had  supposed — gold  and  notes  to  the  amount 
of  £1975,  of  which  nearly  £300  were  in  sover- 
eigns. He  smoothed  the  notes  carefully  ;  and, 
for  want  of  other  occupation,  and  with  the  view 
of  showing  Losely  that  he  could  profit  by  a  hint, 
he  entered  the  numbers  of  the  notes  in  his  pock- 
et-book, placed  them  all  together  in  one  drawer 
with  the  gold,  relocked  his  bureau,  and  went 
shortly  afterward  to  bed.  The  next  day  (Lose- 
ly having  gone  in  the  morning)  the  tradesman 
came  to  be  paid  for  the  vinery.  Gunston  went 
to  his  bureau,  took  out  his  notes,  and  found 
£250  were  gone.  He  could  hardh'  believe  his 
senses.  Had  he  made  a  mistake  in  counting  ? 
No.  There  was  his  pocket-book,  the  missing 
notes  entered  duly  therein.  Then  he  recount- 
ed the  sovereigns,  142  were  gone  of  them — 
nearly  £400  in  all  thus  abstracted.  He  refused 
at  first  to  admit  suspicion  of  Losely ;  but,  on  in- 
terrogating his  servants,  the  valet  deposed,  that 
he  was  disturbed  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing by  the  bark  of  the  house-dog,  which  was  let 
loose  of  a  night  within  the  front  court-yard  of 
the  house.  Not  apprehending  robbers,  but  fear- 
ing the  dog  might  also  disturb  his  master,  he 
got  out  of  his  window  (being  on  the  ground- 
floor)  to  pacify  the  animal;  that  he  then  saw, 
in  the  opposite  angle  of  the  building,  a  light 
moving  along  the  casement  of  the  passage  be- 
tween Losely's  rooms  and  Mr.  Gunston's  study. 
Surprised  at  this,  at  such  an  hour,  he  approach- 
ed that  part  of  the  building,  and  saw  the  light 
very  faintly  tiu'ough  the  chinks  in  the  shutters 
of  the  study.  The  passage  windows  had  no 
shutters,  being  old-fashioned  stone  muUions. 
He  waited  hy  the  wall  a  few  minutes,  when  the 
light  again  reappeared  in  the  passage ;  and  he 
saw  a  figure  in  a  cloak,  which,  being  in  a  pecu- 
liar color,  he  recogni-zed  at  once  as  Losely's, 
pass  rapidly  along;  but  before  the  figure  had 
got  half  through  the  passage,  the  light  was  ex- 
tinguished, and  the  servant  could  see  no  more. 


But  so  positive  was  he,  from  his  recognition  of 
the  cloak,  that  the  man  was  Losely,  that  he 
ceased  to  feel  alarm  or  surprise,  thinking,  on 
reflection,  that  Losely,  sitting  np  later  than 
usual  to  transact  business  before  his  dei)arture, 
niiglit  have  gone  into  his  employer's  study  for 
any  book  or  jxaper  which  he  might  have  left 
there.  The  dog  began  barking  again,  and  seem- 
ed anxious  to  get  out  of  the  court-yard  to  which 
he  was  confined ;  but  the  servant  gradually  ap- 
peased him — went  to  bed,  and  somewhat  over- 
slept himself.  When  he  woke,  he  hastened  to 
take  the  coflee  into  Losely's  room,  but  Losely 
was  gone.  Here  there  was  another  suspicious 
circumstance.  It  had  been  a  question  how  the 
bureau  had  been  opened,  the  key  being  safe  in 
Gunston's  possesion,  and  there  being  no  sign 
of  force.  The  lock  was  one  of  those  rude,  old- 
fashioned  ones  which  are  very  easily  pjicked, 
but  to  which  a  modern  key  does  not  readily  fit. 
In  the  passage  there  was  found  a  long  nail 
crooked  at  the  end ;  and  that  nail  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  police  (who  had  been  summoned) 
had  the  wit  to  apply  to  the  lock  of  the  bureau, 
and  it  unlocked  and  relocked  it  easily.  It  was 
clear  that  whoever  had  so  shaped  the  nail  could 
not  have  used  such  an  instrument  for  the  first 
time,  and  must  be  a  practiced  picklock.  That, 
one  would  suppose  at  first,  might  exonerate 
Losely;  but  he  was  so  clever  a  fellow  at  all 
mechanical  contrivances,  that,  cou]jled  with  the 
place  of  finding,  the  nail  made  greatly  against 
him ;  and  still  more  so,  when  some  nails  pre- 
cisely similar  were  found  on  the  chimney-piece 
of  an  inner-room  in  his  apartment,  a  room  be- 
tween that  in  which  he  had  received  Gunston 
and  his  bed-chamber,  and  used  by  him  both  as 
study  and  workshop,  the  nails,  indeed,  which 
were  very  long  and  narrow,  with  a  Gothic  orna- 
mental head,  were  at  once  recognized  by  the 
carpenter  on  the  estate  as  having  been  made 
according  to  Losely's  directions,  for  a  garden- 
bench  to  be  placed  in  Gunston's  favorite  walk, 
Gunston  having  remarked,  some  days  before, 
that  he  should  like  a  seat  there,  and  Losely  hav- 
ing undertaken  to  make  one  from  a  design  by 
Pugin.  Still  loth  to  believe  in  Losely's  guilt, 
Gunston  went  to  London  with  the  police  super- 
intendent, the  valet,  and  the  neighboring  attor- 
ney. They  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  Losely; 
he  was  at  his  son's  lodgings  in  the  City,  near 
the  commercial  house  in  which  the  son  was  a 
clerk.  On  being  told  of  the  roljbery,  he  seemed 
at  first  unaffectedly  surprised,  evincing  no  fear. 
I  He  was  asked  whether  he  had  gone  into  the 
study  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  He 
said,  "No;  why  should  I?"  The  valet  ex- 
claimed, "But  I  saw  you — I  knew  you  by  that 
old  gray  cloak,  with  the  red  lining.  AVhy,  there 
I  it  is  now — on  that  chair  yonder.  I'll  swear  it  is 
I  the  same."  Losely  then  began  to  tremble  visi- 
bly, and  grew  extremely  pale.  A  question  was 
next  put  to  him  as  to  the  nail,  but  he  seemed 
j  quite  stupefied,  muttering,  "Good  Heavens!  the 
I  cloak — you  mean  to  say  you  saw  that  cloak?" 
They  searched  his  person — found  on  him  some 
I  sovereigns,  silver,  and  one  bank-note  for  five 
I  pounds.  The  number  on  that  bank-note  corre- 
sponded with  a  number  in  Gunston's  pocket-book. 
He  was  asked  to  say  where  he  got  that  five- 
pound  note.  He  refused  to  answer.  Gunston 
said,  "It  is  one  of  the  notes  stolen  from  me!" 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


183 


Losely  cried,  fiercely,  "Take  care  what  you  say.  tions,  must  have  been  more  than  a  mere  securi- 
How  do  you  know  ?"  Gunston  replied,  "  I  took  ty  in  a  joint  bill  with  Captain  Haughton.  Gun- 
an  account  of  the  numbers  of  my  notes  on  leav-  ston  could  never  have  understood  such  an  in- 
ing  your  room.  Here  is  the  memorandum  in  consistency  in  human  nature,  that  the  same  man 
my  pocket-book— see— "  Losely  looked,  and  ,  who  broke  open  his  bureau  should  have  become 
fell  back  as  if  shot.  Losely's  brother-in-law  responsible  to  the  amount  of  his  fortune  for  a 
was  in  the  room  at  the  time,  and  he  exclaimed,  |  debt  of  which  he  had  not  shared  the  discredit 
"Oh,  William!  you  can't  be  guilty.  You  are  |  and  still  less  that  such  a  man  should,  in  case  he 
the  honestest  fellow  in  the  world.  There  must  j  had  been  so  generously  imprudent,'  have  con- 
be  some  mistake,  gentlemen.  Where  did  you  j  cealed  his  loss  out  of  delicate  tenderness  for  the 
get  the  note,  William — say  ?"  Losely  made  no  " 
answer,  but  seemed  lost  in  thought  or  stupefac- 
tion. "  I  will  go  for  your  son,  William — per- 
haps he  may  help  to  explain."  Losely  then  seem- 
ed to  wake  up.  "  My  son !  what !  would  you  ex- 
pose me  before  my  son?  he's  gone  into  the  coun- 
try, as  you  know.  What  has  he  to  do  with  it  ?  I 
took  the  notes — there — I  have  confessed.  Have 
done  with  it,"  or  words  to  that  effect.' 

"Nothing  more  of  importance,"  said  the  Col- 
onel, turning  over/the  leaves  of  his  MS.,  "ex- 
cept to  account  for  the  crime.  And  here  we 
come  back  to  the  money-lender.  You  remem- 
ber the  valet  said  that  a  gentleman  had  called 
on  Losely  two  days  before  the  robbery.  This 
proved  to  be   tlie   identical  bill-discounter    to 


character  of  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  ruin. 
Therefore,  in  short,  Gunston  looked  on  his  dis- 
honest steward,  not  as  a  man  tempted  by  a  sud- 
den impulse  in  some  moment  of  distress,  at 
which  a  previous  life  was  belied,  but  as  a  con- 
firmed, dissimulating  sharper,  to  whom  public 
justice  allowed  no  mercy.  And  thus,  Lionel, 
William  Losely  was  prosecuted,  tried,  and  sen- 
tenced to  seven  years'  transportation.  By  plead- 
ing guilty,  the  term  was  probably  made  shorter 
than  it  otherwise  would  have  been." 

Lionel  continued  too  agitated  for  words.  The 
Colonel,  not  seeming  to  heed  his  emotions, 
again  ran  his  eye  over  the  MS. 

"  I  observe  here  that  there  are  some  queries 
^  entered  as  to  the  evidence  against  Losely.    The 
whom  Losely  had  paid  away  his  fortune.     This  j  solicitor  whom,  when  I  heard  of  his  arrest,  I  en- 
person  deposed  that  Losely  had  written  to  him  j  gagedandsent  down  to  the  place  on  his  behalf 


some  days  before,  stating  that  he  wanted  to  bor 
row  two  or  three  hundred  pounds,  which  he 
could  repay  by  installments  out  of  his  salary. 
What  would  be  the  terms  ?  The  money-lender 
having  occasion  to  be  in  the  neighborhood, 
called  to  discuss  the  matter  in  person,  and  to 
ask  if  Losely  could  not  get  some  other  person 
to  join  in  security — suggesting  his  brother-in- 
law.  Losely  replied  that  it  was  a  favor^  he 
would  never  ask  any  one;  that  his  brother-in- 
law  had  no  pecuniary  means  beyond  his  salary 
as  a  senior  clerk ;  and,  supposing  that  he  (Lose- 
ly) lost  his  place,  which  he  might  any  day,  if 
Gunston  were  displeased  with  him — ^liow  then 
could  he  be  sure  that  his  debt  would  not  fall  on 
the  security?  Upon  which  the  money-lender 
remarked  that  the  precarious  nature  of  his  in- 
come was  the  very  reason  why  a  security  was 
wanted.  And  Losely  answered,  '  Ay  ;  but  you 
know  that  you  incur  that  risk,  and  charge  ac- 
cordingly. Between  you  and  me  the  debt  and 
the  hazard  are  mere  matter  of  business,  but  be- 
tween me  and  my  security  it  would  be  a  matter 
of  honor.'  Finally  the  money-lender  agreed  to 
find  the  sum  required,  though  asking  very  high 
terms.  Losely  said  he  would  consider,  and  let 
him  know.  There  the  conversation  ended.  But 
Gunston  inquired  'if  Losely  had  ever  had  deal- 
ings with  the  money-lender  before,  and  for 
what  purpose  it  was  likely  he  would  want  the 
money  now  ?'  and  the  money-lender  answered 
'that  probably  Losely  had  some  sporting  or 
gaming  speculations  on  the  sly,  for  that  it  was 
to  pay  a  gambling  debt  that  he  had  joined  Cap- 


"  You  did  !  Heaven  reward  you!"  sobbed  out 
Lionel.     "But  my  father? — where  was  he ?" 

"Then? — in  his  grave." 

Lionel  breathed  a  deep  sigh,  as  of  thankful- 
ness. 

"The  lawyer,  I  say — a  sharp  fellow — was  of 
opinion  that  if  Losely  had  refused  to  plead 
guilty,  he  could  have  got  him  off  in  spite  of  his 
first  confession — turned  the  suspicion  against 
some  one  else.  In  the  passage  where  the  nail 
was  picked  up,  there  was  a  door  into  the  park. 
That  door  was  found  unbolted  in  the  inside  the 
next  morning ;  a  thief  might  therefore  have 
thus  entered,  and  passed  at  once  into  the  study. 
The  nail  was  discovered  close  by  that  door ;  tlie 
thief  might  have  dropped  it  on  putting  out  his 
light,  which,  by  the  valet's  account,  he  must 
have  done,  when  he  was  near  the  door  in  ques- 
tion, and  required  the  light  no  more.  Another 
circumstance  in  Losely's  favor.  Just  outside 
the  door,  near  a  laurel-bush,  was  found  the  fag- 
end  of  one  of  those  small  rose-colored  wax- 
lights  which  are  often  placed  in  lucifer  match- 
boxes. If  this  had  been  used  by  the  thief,  it 
would  seem  as  if,  extinguishing  the  light  before 
he  stepped  into  the  air,  he  very  naturally  jerked 
away  the  morsel  of  taper  left,  when,  in  the  next 
moment,  he  was  out  of  the  house.  But  Losely 
would  not  have  gone  out  of  the  house ;  nor  was 
he,  nor  any  one  about  the  premises,  ever  known 
to  make  use  of  that  kind  of  taper,  which  would 
rather  appertain  to  the  fashionable  fopperies  of 
a  London  dandy.  You  will  have  observed,  too, 
the  valet  had  not  seen  the  thief's  face.     His 


tain  Haughton  in  a  bill  for  £1200.'  And  Gun-  \  testimony  rested  solely  on  the  colors  of  a  cloak, 
ston  aftenvard  told  a  friend  of  mine  that  this  it ,  which,  on  cross-examination,  might  have  gone 
was  that  decided  him  to  appear  as  a  witness  at  |  for  nothing.  The  dog  had  barked  before  the 
the  trial ;  and  you  will  observe  that  if  Gunston  |  light  was  seen.  It  was  not  the  light  that  made 
had  kept  away,  there  would  have  been  no  evi-  j  him  bark.  He  wished  to  get  out  of  the  court- 
dence  sufficient  to  insure  conviction.  But  Gun-  i  yard;  that  looked  as  if  there  were  some  stran- 
ston  considered  that  the  man  who  could  gamble  j  ger  in  the  grounds  beyond.  Following  up  this 
away  his  whole  fortune  must  be  incorrigible,  ;  clew,  the  lawyer  ascertained  that  a  strange  man 
and  that  Losely,  having  concealed  from  him  had  been  seen  in  the  park  toward  the  gray  of 
that  he  had  become  destitute  by  such  transac-    the  evening,  walking  up  in  the  direction  of  the 


18i 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


house.  And  here  comes  the  strong  point.  At 
the  railway  station,  about  five  miles  from  Mr. 
Gunston's,  a  strange  man  had  arrived  just  in 
time  to  take  his  place  in  the  night  train  from 
the  north  toward  London,  stopping  there  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  station-master  re- 
membered the  stranger  buying  the  ticket,  but 
did  not  remark  his  appearance.  The  porter  did, 
however,  so  far  notice  him,  as  he  hurried  into  a 
first-class  carriage,  that  he  said  afterward  to  the 
station-master,  'Why,  that  gentleman  has  a 
gray  cloak  just  like  ilr.  Losely's.  If  he  had 
not  been  thinner  and  taller,  I  should  have 
thought  it  was  ^Ir.  Losely.'  Well,  Losely  went 
to  the  same  station  the  next  morning,  taking  an 
early  train,  going  thither  on  foot,  with  his  car- 
pet-bag in  his  hand;  and  both  the  porter  and 
station-master  declared  that  he  had  no  cloak  on 
him  at  the  time ;  and  as  he  got  into  a  second- 
class  carriage,  the  porter  even  said  to  him,  '  'Tis 
a  sharp  morning,  Sir;  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  cold.' 
Furthermore,  as  to  the  purpose  for  which  Losely 
had  wished  to  borrow  of  the  money-lender,  his 
brother-in-law  stated  that  Losely's  son  had  been 
extravagant,  had  contracted  debts,  and  was  even 
hiding  from  his  creditors  in  a  country  town,  at 
which  William  Losely  had  stopped  for  a  few 
hours  on  his  way  to  London.  He  knew  the 
young  man's  employer  had  written  kindly  to 
Losely  several  days  before,  lamenting  the  son's 
extravagance ;  intimating  that  unless  his  debts 
were  discharged,  be  mr.st  lose  the  situation  in 
which  otherwise  he  might  soon  rise  to  compe- 
tence, for  that  he  was  quick  and  sharp ;  and 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  indulgent  to- 
ward him,  he  was  so  lively  and  so  good-looking. 
The  trader  added  that  he  would  forbear  to  dis- 
miss the  young  man  as  long  as  he  could.  It 
was  on  the  receipt  of  that  letter  that  Losely 
had  entered  into  communication  with  the  mon- 
ey-lender, whom  he  had  come  to  town  to  seek, 
and  to  whose  house  he  was  actually  going  at  the 
very  hour  of  Gunston's  arrival.  But  why  bor- 
row of  the  money-lender,  if  he  had  just  stolen 
more  money  than  he  had  any  need  to  borrow  ? 

"The  most  damning  fact  against  Losely,  by 
the  discovery  in  his  possession  of  the  £5  note, 
of  which  Mr.  Gunston  deposed  to  have  taken 
the  number,  was  certainly  hard  to  get  over;  still 
an  ingenious  lawyer  might  have  thrown  doubt 
on  Gunston's  testimony — a  man  confessedly  so 
careless  might  have  mistaken  the  number,  etc. 
The  lawyer  went,  with  these  hints  for  defense, 
to  see  Losely  himself  in  prison ;  but  Losely  de- 
clined his  help — became  very  angry — said  that 
he  would  rather  suffer  death  itself  than  have 
suspicion  transferred  to  some  innocent  man; 
and  that,  as  to  the  cloak,  it  had  been  inside  his 
carpet  bag.  So  you  see,  bad  as  he  was,  there 
was  something  inconsistently  honorable  left  in 
him  still.  Poor  Willy!  he  would  not  even  sub- 
poena any  of  his  old  friends  as  to  his  general 
character.  But  even  if  he  had,  what  could  the 
Court  do  since  he  pleaded  guilty?  And  now 
dismiss  that  subject,  it  begins  to  pain  me  ex- 
tremely. You  were  to  speak  to  me  about  some 
one  of  the  same  name  when  my  story  was  con- 
cluded.    What  is  it?" 

"I  am  so  confused,"  faltered  Lionel,  still 
quivering  with  emotion,  "that  I  can  scarcely 
answer  you — scarcely  recollect  myself.  But — 
but — wliile  you  were  describing  this  poor  Will- 


'  iam  Losely,  his  talent  for  mimicry  and  acting, 
}  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  I  had  seen  him." 
Lionel  proceeded  to  speak  of  Gentleman  Waife, 
1  "Can  that  be  the  man?" 

I      Alban   shook   his   head  incredulously.      He 
i  thought  it  so  like  a  romantic  youth  to  detect 
imaginary  resemblances. 

"No,"  said  he,  "  my  dear  boy.  ily  William 
Losely  could  never  become  a  strolling  player  in 
a  village  fair.  Besides,  I  have  good  reason  to 
!  believe  that  Willy  is  well  off;  probably  made 
money  in  the  colony  by  some  lucky  hit :  for 
when  do  you  say  you  saw  your  stroller?  Five 
years  ago?  Well,  not  verj-  long  before  that 
date — perhaps  a  year  or  two — less  than  two 
years  I  am  sure — this  eccentric  rascal  sent  Mr. 
Gunston,  the  mat*  who  had  transported  him, 
£100!  Gunston,  you  must  know,  feeling  more 
than  ever  bored  and  hipped  when  he  lost  Willy, 
tried  to  divert  himself  by  becoming  director  in 
some  railway  company.  The  company  proved  a 
bubble  ;  all  turned  their  indignation  on  the  one 
rich  man  who  could  pay  where  others  cheated. 
Gunston  was  ruined — purse  and  character — fled 
to  Calais  ;  and  there,  less  than  seven  years  ago, 
when  in  great  distress,  he  received  from  poor 
Willy  a  kind,  affectionate,  forgiving,  letter,  and 
£100.  I  have  this  from  Gunston's  nearest  rela- 
tion, to  whom  he  told  it,  crying  like  a  child. 
Willy  gave  no  address ;  but  it  is  clear  that  at 
the  time  he  must  have  been  too  well  ofl'  to  turn 
mountebank  at  your  miserable  exhibition.  Poor, 
dear,  rascally,  infamous,  big-hearted  Willy," 
burst  out  the  Colonel.  "I  wish  to  Heaven  he 
had  only  robbed  me !" 

"Sir,"  said  Lionel,  "rely  upon  it,  that  man 
you^describe  never  robbed  any  one — 'tis  impos- 
sible." 

"Xo — veiy  possible! — human  nature,"  said 
Alban  ^lorley.  "And,  after  all,  he  really  owed 
Gunston  that  £100.  For  out  of  the  sum  stolen, 
Gunston  received  anonymously,  even  before  the 
trial,  all  the  missing  notes,  minus  about  that 
£100;  and  Willy  therefore  owed  Gunston  the 
money,  but  not,  perhaps,  that  kind,  forgiving 
letter.  Pass  on — quick — the  subject  is  worse 
than  the  gout.  You  have  heard  before  the 
name  of  Losely — possibly.  There  are  many 
members  of  the  old  Baronet's  family ;  but  when 
or  where  did  you  hear  it?" 

"  I  will  tell  you ;  the  man  who  holds  the  bill 
(ah,  the  word  sickens  me!)  reminded  me  when 
he  called  that  I  had  seen  him  at  my  mother's 
house — a  chance  acquaintance  of  hers — pro- 
fessed great  regard  for  me — great  admiration 
for  Mr.  Darrell — and  then  surprised  me  by  ask- 
ing if  I  had  never  heard  Mr.  Darrell  speak  of 
Mr.  Jasper  Losely." 

"Jasper!"  said  the  Colonel;  "Jasper! — well, 
go  on." 

"  When  I  answered  '  No,'  ilr.  Poole  (that  is 
his  name)  shook  his  head,  and  muttered — '  A 
sad  aft'air — very  bad  business — I  could  do  IMr. 
Darrell  a  great  service  if  he  would  let  me  :"  and 
then  went  on  talking  what  seemed  to  me  imper- 
tinent gibberish  about  •  family  exposures'  and 
'poverty  making  men  desperate,'  and  'better 
compromise  matters;'  and  finally  wound  up  by 
begging  me,  'if  I  loved  Mr.  Darrell,  and  wished 
to  guard  him  from  very  great  annoyance  and 
suflering,  to  persuade  him  to  give  Mr.  Poole  an 
intenicw.'     Then  he  talked  about  his  own  char- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


185 


acter  in  the  Citv,  and  so  forth,  and  entreating 
me  '  not  to  think  of  paying  him  till  quite  con- 
venient ;  that  he  would  keep  the  bill  in  his  desk ; 
nobody  should  know  of  it ;  too  happy  to  do  me 
a  favor' — laid  his  card  on  the  table,  and  went 
away.  Tell  me,  should  I  say  any  thing  to  Mr. 
Darrell  about  this  or  not  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  till  I  have  seen  Mr.  Poole 
myself.  You  have  the  money  to  pay  him  about 
you?  Give  it  to  me  with  Mr.  Poole's  address; 
i  will  call  and  settle  the  matter.  Just  ring  the 
bell."  (To  the  servant,  entering)  "Order  my 
horse  round."  Then,  when  they  were  again 
alone,  turning  to  Lionel  abruptly,  laying  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  with  the  other  grasping 
his  hand  warmly,  cordially,  "  Young  man,"  said 
Alban  ^Morley,  "I  love  you — I  am  interested  in 
you — who  would  not  be  ?  I  have  gone  through 
this  story ;  put  myself  positively  to  pain — which 
I  hate — solely  for  your  good.  You  see  what 
usury  and  moner-lenders  bring  men  to.  Look 
me  in  the  face!  Do  you  feel  now  that  you 
would  have  the  '  moral  courage'  you  before 
doubted  of?  Have  you  done  with  such  things 
forever?" 

"  Forever,  so  help  me  Heaven  I  The  lesson 
has  been  cruel,  but  I  do  thank  and  bless  you 
for  it." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  [Mark  this !  never  treat 
money  atfairs  with  levity — money  is  charac- 
ter 1  Stop.  I  have  bared  a  father's  fault  to  a 
son.  It  was  necessary — or  even  in  his  grave 
those  faults  might  have  revived  in  you.  Now, 
I  add  this,  if  Charles  Haughton — like  you,  hand- 
some, high-spirited,  favored  by  men,  spoiled  by 
women — if  Charles  Haughton,  on  entering  life, 
could  have  seen,  in  the  mirror  I  have  held  up 
to  you,  the  consequences  of  pledging  the  mor- 
row to  pay  for  to-day,  Charles  Haughton  would 
have  been  shocked  as  you  are,  cured  as  you  will 
be.  Humbled  by  your  own  first  error,  be  leni- 
ent to  all  his.  Take  up  his  life  where  I  first 
knew  it :  when  his  heart  was  loyal,  his  lips  truth- 
ful. Raze  out  the  interval ;  imagine  that  he 
gave  birth  to  you  in  order  to  replace  the  leaves 
of  existence  we  thus  blot  out  and  tear  away.  In 
every  error  avoided  say,  '  Thus  the  father  warns 
the  son ;'  in  every  honorable  action  or  hard 
self-sacrifice,  say,  '  Thus  the  son  pays  a  father's 
debt.' " 

Lionel,  clasping  his  hands  together,  raised 
his  eyes  streaming  with  tears,  as  if  uttering  inly 
a  vow  to  Heaven.  The  Colonel  bowed  his  sol- 
dier-crest with  religious  reverence,  and  glided 
from  the  room  uoiselesslv. 


CHAPTER  Yin. 

Being  but  one  of  the  considerate  pauses  in  a  long  jour- 
ney—charitably afforded  to  the  Reader. 

CoLON-EL  MoRLET  found  Mr.  Poole  at  home, 
just  returned  from  his  office ;  he  staid  with 
that  gentleman  nearly  an  hour,  and  then  went 
straight  to  Darrell.  As  the  time  appointed  to 
meet  the  French  acquaintance,  who  depended 
on  his  hospitalities  for  a  dinner,  was  now  near- 
ly arrived,  Alban's  conference  with  his  English 
friend  was  necessarily  brief  and  humed,  though 
long  enough  to  confirm  one  fact  in  Mr.  Poole's 
statement,  which  had  been  unknown  to  the  Col- 


onel before  that  day,  and  the  admission  of  which 
was  to  Guy  Darrell  a  pang  as  shai-p  as  ever 
wTcnched  confession  from  the  lips  of  a  prisoner 
in  the  cells  of  the  Inquisition.  On  returning 
from  Greenwich,  and  depositing  his  Frenchman 
in  some  melancholy  theatre,  time  enough  for 
that  resentful  foreigner  to  witness  theft  and 
murder  committed  npon  an  injured  countrv- 
man's  vaudeville,  Alban  hastened  again  to  Carl- 
ton Gardens.  He  found  Darrell  alone,  pacing 
his  floor  to  and  fro,  in  the  habit  he  had  acquired 
in  earlier  life,  perhaps  Mhen  meditating  some 
complicated  law-case,  or  wrestling  with  himself 
against  some  secret  sorrow.  There  are  men  of 
quick  nerves  who  require  a  certain  action  of  the 
body  for  the  better  composure  of  the  mind ;  Dar- 
rell was  one  of  them. 

During  these  restless  movements,  alternated 
by  abrupt  pauses,  equally  inharmonious  to  the 
supreme  quiet  which  characterized  his  listener's 
tastes  and  habits,  the  haughty  gentleman  dis- 
burdened himself  of  at  least  one  of  the  secrets 
which  he  had  hitherto  guarded  from  his  early 
friend.  But  as  that  secret  connects  itself  with 
the  history  of  a  Person  about  whom  it  is  well 
that  the  reader  should  now  learn  more  than  was 
known  to  Darrell  himself,  we  will  assume  our 
privilege  to  be  ourselves  the  narrator,  and  at 
the  cost  of  such  dramatic  vivacity  as  may  belong 
to  dialogue,  but  with  the  gain  to  the  reader  of 
clearer  insight  into  those  portions  of  the  past 
which  the  occasion  permits  us  to  reveal — we  will 
weave  into  something  like  method  the  more  im- 
perfect and  desultory  communications  by  which 
Guy  Darrell  added  to  Alban  Morley's  distaste- 
ful catalogue  of  painful  subjects.  The  reader 
will  allow,  jierhaps,  that  we  thus  evince  a  de- 
sire to  gratify  his  curiosity,  when  we  state,  that 
of  Arabella  Crane,  Dan-ell  spoke  but  in  one 
brief  and  angry  sentence,  and  that  not  by  the 
name  in  which  the  reader  as  yet  alone  knows 
her ;  and  it  is  with  the  antecedents  of  Arabella 
Crane  that  our  explanation  will  tranquilly  com- 
mence. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
Grim  Arabella  Crane. 
0>XE  on  a  time  there  lived  a  merchant  named 
Fossett,  a  widower  with  three  children,  of  whom 
a  daughter,  Arabella,  was  by  some  years  the 
eldest.  He  was  much  respected,  deemed  a  warm 
man,  and  a  safe — attended  diligently  to  his  busi- 
ness— suffered  no  partner,  no  foreman,  to  dic- 
tate or  intermeddle  —  liked  his  comforts,  but 
made  no  pretense  to  fashion.  His  villa  was  at 
Clapham,  not  a  showy  but  a  solid  edifice,  ^^itli 
lodge,  lawn,  and  gardens,  chiefly  notable  for 
what  is  technically  called  glass — viz.,  a  range  of 
glass-houses  on  the  most  improved  principles ; 
the  heaviest  pines,  the  earliest  strawberries. 
"I'm  no  judge  of  flowers,"  quoth  Mr.  Fossett, 
meekly.  "Give  me  a  plain  lawn,  provided  it 
be  close  shaven.  But  I  sav  to  my  gardener, 
•  Forcing  is  my  hobby — a  cucumber  with  my  fish 
all  the  year  round!'"  Yet  do  not  suppose  Mr. 
Fossett  ostentatious  —  quite  the  reverse.  He 
would  no  more  ruin  himself  for  the  sake  of  daz- 
zling others  than  he  would  for  the  sake  of  serv- 
ing them.  He  liked  a  warm  house,  spacious 
rooms,  good  lining,  old  vriue,  for  their  inherent 


186 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


merits.  He  cared  not  to  parade  them  to  public 
envy.  When  he  dined  alone,  or  with  a  single 
favored  guest,  the  best  Latitte,  the  oldest  sher- 
ry ! — when  extending  the  rites  of  miscellaneous 
hospitality  to  neighbors,  relations,  or  other  slight 
acquaintances — for  Lafitte,  Julien ;  and  for  sher- 
ry. Cape! — Thus  not  provoking  vanity,  nor 
courting  notice,  Mr.  Fossett  was  without  an  en- 
emy, and  seemed  without  a  care.  Formal  were 
his  manners,  formal  his  household,  formal  even 
the  stout  cob  that  bore  him  from  Cheapside  to 
Clapiiam,  from  Claphani  to  Cheapside.  That 
cob  could  not  even  prick  up  its  ears  if  it  wished 
to  shy — its  ears  were  cropped,  so  were  its  mane 
and  its  tail. 

Arabella  early  gave  promise  of  beautv,  and 
more  than  ordinary  power  of  intellect  and  char- 
acter. Her  father  bestowed  on  her  every  ad- 
vantage of  education.  She  was  sent  to  a  select 
boarding-school  of  the  highest  reputation;  the 
strictest  discipline,  the  best  masters,  the  longest 
bills.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  she  had  become 
the  show  pupil  of  the  seminary.  Friends  won- 
dered somewhat  why  the  prim  merchant  took 
such  pains  to  lavish  on  his  daughter  the  worldly 
accomplishments  which  seemed  to  give  him  no 
pleasure,  and  of  which  he  never  spoke  with 
]jride.  But  certainly,  if  she  was  so  clever — 
tirst-rate  musician,  exquisite  artist,  accomplish- 
ed linguist,  "it  was  very  nice  in  old  Fossett  to 
bear  it  so  meekly,  never  crying  her  up,  nor 
showing  her  off  to  less  fortunate  parents — very 
nice  in  him — good  sense — greatness  of  mind." 

"Arabella,"  said  the  worthy  man,  one  day,  a 
little  time  after  she  had  left  school  for  good ; 

"Arabella,"  said  he,  "Mrs. ,"  naming  the 

head  teacher  in  that  famous  school,  "pays  you 
a  very  high  compliment  in  a  letter  I  received 
from  her  this  morning.  She  says  it  is  a  pity 
j'ou  are  not  a  poor  man's  daughter — that  you 
are  so  steady  and  so  clever  that  you  could  make 
a  fortune  for  yourself  as  a  teacher." 

Arabella  at  that  age  could  smile  gayly,  and 
gayly  she  smiled  at  the  notion  conveyed  in  the 
compliment. 

"  No  one  gau  guess,"  resumed  the  father, 
twirling  his  thumbs  and  speaking  rather  through 
his  nose,  "the  ups  and  downs  in  this  mortal 
sphere  of  trial,  'specially  in  the  mercantile  com- 
munity. If  ever,  when  I'm  dead  and  gone,  ad- 
versity should  come  upon  you,  you  will  grateful- 
ly remember  that  I  have  given  you  the  best  of 
education,  and  take  care  of  your  little  brother 
and  sister,  who  are  both — stupid  !" 

These  doleful  words  did  not  make  much  im- 
pression on  Arabella,  uttered  as  they  were  in  a 
handsome  drawing-room,  opening  on  the  neat- 
shaven  lawn  it  took  three  gardeners  to  shave, 
with  a  glittering  side-view  of  those  galleries  of 
glass  in  which  strawberries  were  ripe  at  Christ- 
mas, and  cucumbers  never  failed  to  fish.  Time 
went  on.  Arabella  was  now  twenty-three — a 
very  fine  girl,  with  a  decided  manner — much 
occujned  by  her  music,  her  drawing,  her  books, 
and  her  fancies.  Fancies — for,  like  most  girls 
with  very  active  heads  and  idle  hearts,  she  had 
a  vague  yearning  for  some  excitement  beyond 
the  monotonous  routine  of  a  young  lady's  life ; 
and  the  latent  force  of  her  nature  inclined  her 
to  admire  whatever  was  out  of  the  beaten  track 
— whatever  was  wild  and  daring.  Slic  had  re- 
ceived two  or  three  offers  from  young  gentlemen 


in  the  same  mercantile  community  as  that  which 
surrounded  her  father  in  this  sphere  of  trial. 
But  they  did  not  please  her;  and  she  believed 
her  father  when  he  said  that  they  only  courted 
her  under  the  idea  that  he  would  come  down 
with  something  handsome ;  "  whereas,"  said  the 
merchant,  "  I  hope  you  will  marry  an  honest 
man,  who  will  like  you  for  yourself,  and  wait 
for  your  fortune  till  my  will  is  read.  As  King 
William  says  to  his  son,  in  the  History  of  En- 
gland, '  I  don't  mean  to  strip  till  I  go  to  bed.' " 

One  night,  at  a  ball  in  Clapham,  Arabella  saw 
the  man  who  was  destined  to  exercise  so  bale- 
ful an  influence  over  her  existence.  Jasper 
Losely  had  been  brought  to  this  ball  by  a  young 
fellow-clerk  in  the  same  commercial  house  as 
himself;  and  then  ffr  all  the  bloom  of  that  con- 
spicuous beauty,  to  which  the  miniature  Arabel- 
la had  placed  before  his  eyes  so  many  years  aft- 
erward did  but  feeble  justice,  it  may  well  be 
conceived  that  he  concentred  on  himself  the 
admiring  gaze  of  the  assembly.  Jasjier  was 
younger  than  Arabella  ;  but,  what  with  the 
height  of  his  stature  and  the  self-confidence  of 
his  air,  he  looked  four  or  five  and  twenty.  Cer- 
tainly, in  so  far  as  the  distance  from  childhood 
may  be  estimated  by  the  loss  of  innocence,  Jas- 
per might  have  been  any  age !  He  was  told  that 
old  Fossett's  daughter  would  have  a  very  fine 
fortune;  that  she  was  a  strong-minded  young 
lady,  who  governed  her  father,  and  would  choose 
for  herself;  and  accordingly  he  devoted  himself 
to  Arabella  the  whole  of  the  evening.  The  ef- 
fect produced  on  the  mind  of  this  ill-fated  wo- 
man by  her  dazzling  admi'.er  was  as  sud  len  as 
it  proved  to  be  lasting.  There  was  a  strange 
charm  in  the  very  contrast  between  his  rattling 
audacity  and  the  bashful  formalities  of  the 
swains  who  had  hitherto  wooed  her,  as  if  she 
frightened  them.  Even  his  good  looks  fascinat- 
ed her  less  than  that  vital  energy  and  power 
about  the  lawless  brute,  which  to  her  seemed 
the  elements  of  heroic  character,  though  but  the 
attributes  of  riotous  spirits,  magnificent  forma- 
tion, flattered  vanity,  and  im]3erious  egotism. 
She  was  as  a  bird  gazing  spell-bound  on  a  gay 
young  bo;i-constrictor,  darting  from  bough  to 
bough,  sunning  its  brilliant  hues,  and  showing 
oft'  all  its  beauty,  just  before  it  takes  the  bird 
for  its  breakfast. 

When  they  parted  that  night  their  intimacy 
had  made  so  much  progress  that  arrangements 
had  been  made  for  its  continuance.  Arabella 
had  an  instinctive  foreboding  that  her  father 
would  be  less  charmed  than  herself  with  Jasper 
Losely;  that,  if  Jasper  were  presented  to  him, 
he  would  possibly  forbid  her  farther  acquaint- 
ance with  a  young  clerk,  however  superb  his 
outward  appearance.  She  took  the  first  false 
step.  She  had  a  maiden  aunt  by  the  mother's 
side,  who  lived  in  Bloomsbury,  gave  and  went 
to  small  parties,  to  which  Jasper  could  easily 
get  introduced.  She  arranged  to  pay  a  visit  for 
some  weeks  to  this  aunt,  who  was  then  very 
civil  to  her,  accepting  with  marked  kindness 
seasonable  presents  of  strawberries,  pines, 
spring  chickens,  and  so  forth,  and  ottering  iu 
turn,  whenever  it  was  convenient,  a  spare  room, 
and  whatever  amusement  a  round  of  small  par- 
ties, and  the  innocent  flirtations  incidental 
thereto,  could  bestow.  Arabella  said  nothing 
to  her  father  about  Jasper  Losely,  and  to  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


187 


aunt's  she  went.  Arabella  saw  Jasper  very 
often  ;  they  became  engaged  to  each  other,  ex- 
changed vows  and  love-tokens,  locks  of  hair,  etc. 
Jasper,  already  much  troubled  by  duns,  became 
naturally  ardent  to  insure  his  felicity  and  Ara- 
bella's supposed  fortune.  Arabella  at  last  sum- 
moned courage,  and  spoke  to  her  father.  To 
her  delighted  surprise,  Mr.  Fossett,  after  some 
moralizing,  more  on  the  uncertainty  of  life  in 
general  than  her  clandestine  proceedings  in 
particular,  agreed  to  see  Mr.  Jasper  Losely,  and 
asked  him  down  to  dinner.  After  dinner,  over 
a  bottle  of  Lafitte,  in  an  exceedingly  plain  but 
exceedingly  weighty  silver  jug,  which  made 
Jasper's  mouth  water  (I  mean  the  jug),  Mr.  Fos- 
sett, commencing  with  that  somewhat  coarse 
though  royal  saying  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
with  which  he  had  before  edified  his  daughter, 
assured  Jasper  that  he  gave  his  full  consent  to 
the  young  gentleman's  nuptials  with  Arabella, 
provided  Jasper  o/his  relations  would  maintain 
her  iu  a  plain  respectable  way,  and  wait  for  her 
fortune  till  his  (Fossett's)  will  was  read.  What 
that  fortune  would  be,  Mr.  Fossett  declined 
even  to  hint.  Jasper  went  away  very  much 
cooled.  Still  the  engagement  went  on.  The 
nuptials  were  tacitly  deferred.  Jasper  and  his 
relations  maintain  a  wife !  Preposterous  idea  I 
It  would  take  a  Clan  of  relations  and  a  Zenana 
of  wives  to  maintain  in  that  state  to  which  he 
deemed  himself  entitled — Jasper  himself!  But 
just  as  he  was  meditating  the  possibility  of  a 
compromise  with  old  Fossett,  by  which  he  would 
agree  to  wait  till  the  will  was  read  for  contin- 
gent advantages,  provided  Fossett,  in  his  turn, 
would  agree  in  the  mean  while  to  afford  lodging 
and  board,  with  a  trifle  for  pocket-money,  to 
Aiabella  and  himself,  in  the  Clapham  Villa, 
which,  though  not  partial  to  rural  scenery, 
Jasper  preferred,  on  the  whole,  to  a  second  floor 
in  the  city — old  Fossett  fell  ill,  took  to  his  bed ; 
was  unable  to  attend  to  his  business,  some  one 
else  attended  to  it;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  tlie  house  stopped  payment,  and  was  dis- 
covered to  have  been  insolvent  for  the  last  ten 
years.  Not  a  discreditable  bankruptcy.  There 
might,  perhaps,  be  seven  shillings  in  the  pound 
ultimately  paid,  and  not  more  than  forty  fami- 
lies irretrievably  ruined.  Old  Fossett,  safe  in 
his  bed,  bore  the  atfliction  with  philosophical 
composure;  observed  to  Arabella  that  he  had 
alv.ays  warned  her  of  the  ups  and  downs  in  this 
sphere  of  trial ;  referred  again  with  pride  to  her 
first-rate  education;  commended  again  to  her 
care  Tom  and  Biddy;  and,  declaring  that  he 
died  in  charity  with  all  men,  resigned  himself 
to  the  last  slumber. 

Arabella  at  first  sought  a  refuge  with  her 
maiden  aunt.  But  that  lady,  though  not  hit  in 
pocket  by  her  brother-in-law's  failure,  was  more 
vehement  against  his  memory  than  his  most  in- 
jured creditor — not  only  that  she  deemed  her- 
self unjustly  defrauded  of  the  ]  lines,  strawben'ies, 
and  spring  chickens,  by  which  she  had  been 
enabled  to  give  small  parties  at  small  cost, 
though  with  ample  show,  but  that  she  was 
robbed  of  the  consequence  she  had  hitherto  de- 
rived from  the  supposed  expectations  of  her 
niece.  In  short,  her  welcome  was  so  hostile, 
and  her  condolences  so  cutting,  that  Arabella 
quitted  her  door  with  a  solemn  determination 
never  again  to  enter  it 


And  now  the  nobler  qualities  of  the  bank- 
rupt's daughter  rose  at  once  into  play.  Left 
penniless,  sJie  resolved  by  her  own  exertions  to 
support  and  to  rear  her  young  brother  and  sister. 
The  great  school  to  which  she  had  been  the  or- 
nament willingly  received  her  as  a  teacher,  un- 
til some  more  advantageous  place  in  a  private 
family,  and  with  a  salary  worthy  of  her  talents 
and  accomplishments,  could  be  found.  Her  in- 
tercourse with  Jasper  became  necessarily  sus- 
pended. She  had  the  generosity  to  write,  offer- 
ing to  release  him  from  his  engagement.  Jas- 
per considered  himself  fully  released  -without 
that  letter;  but  he  deemed  it  neither  gallant 
nor  discreet  to  say  so.  Arabella  might  obtain 
a  situation  with  larger  salary  than  she  could 
possibly  need,  the  superfluities  whereof  Jasper 
might  undertake  to  invest.  Her  aunt  had  evi- 
dently something  to  leave,  though  she  might 
have  nothing  to  give.  In  fine,  Arabella,  if  not 
rich  enough  for  a  wife,  might  be  often  rich 
enough  for  a  friend  at  need ;  and  so  long  as  he 
was  engaged  to  her  for  life,  it  must  be  not  more 
her  pleasure  than  her  duty  to  assist  him  to 
live.  Besides,  independently  of  these  pruden- 
tial though  not  ardent  motives  for  declaring  un- 
alterable fidelity  to  troth,  Jasper  at  that  time 
really  did  entertain  what  he  called  love  for  the 
handsome  young  woman — flattered  that  one  of 
attainments  so  superior  to  all  the  girls  he  had 
ever  known  should  be  so  proud  even  less  of  his 
aflection  for  her  than  her  own  aft'ection  for  him- 
self. Thus  the  engagement  lasted — interviews 
none — letters  frequent.  Arabella  worked  hard, 
looking  to  the  future ;  Jasper  worked  as  little 
as  possible,  and  was  very  much  bored  by  the 
present. 

Unhappily,  as  it  turned  out,  so  great  a  sym- 
pathy, not  only  among  the  teachers,  but  among 
her  old  school-fellows,  was  felt  for  Arabella's 
reverse — her  character  for  steadiness  as  well  as 
talent  stood  so  high,  and  there  was  something 
so  creditable  in  her  resolution  to  maintain  her 
orphan  brother  and  sister — that  an  efibrt  was 
made  to  procure  her  a  livelihood  much  more 
lucrative,  and  more  independent,  than  she  could 
obtain  either  in  a  school  or  a  family.  Why  not 
take  a  small  house  of  her  own,  live  there  with 
her  fellow-orphans,  and  give  lessons  out  by  the 
hour?  Several  families  at  once  agreed  so  to 
engage  her,  and  an  income  adequate  to  all  her 
wants  was  assured.  Arabella  adopted  this  plan. 
She  took  the  house ;  Bridget  Greggs,  the  nurse 
of  her  infancy,  became  her  senant,  and  soon  to 
that  house,  stealthily  in  the  shades  of  ev£ning, 
glided  Jasper  Losely.  She  could  not  struggle 
against  his  influence — had  not  the  heart  to  re- 
fuse his  visits — he  was  so  poor — in  such  scrapes 
— and  professed  himself  to  be  so  unhappy. 
There  now  became  some  one  else  to  toil  for, 
besides  the  little  brother  and  sister.  But  what 
were  Ai'abella's  gains  to  a  man  who  already 
gambled  !  Kew  afflictions  smote  her.  A  con- 
tagious fever  broke  out  in  the  neighborhood; 
her  little  brother  caught  it;  her  little  sister 
sickened  the  next  day;  in  less  than  a  week  two 
small  coffins  were  borne  from  her  door  by  the 
Black  Horses — borne  to  that  plot  of  sunny  turf 
in  the  pretty  suburban  cemetery,  bought  with 
the  last  earnings  made  for  the  little  ones  by  the 
mother-like  sister  —  Motherless,  lone  survivor  ! 
what !  no  friend  on  earth,  no  soother  but  that 


188 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


direful  Jasper  !  Alas !  the  truly  dangerous  Ve- 
nus is  not  that  Erycina  round  wiioni  circle  Jest 
and  Laughter.  Sorrow,  and  that  sense  of  soli- 
tude which  makes  us  welcome  a  footstep  as  a 
child  left  in  the  haunting  dark  welcomes  the 
entrance  of  light — weaken  the  outworks  of  fe- 
male virtue  more  than  all  the  vain  levities  of 
mirth,  or  the  flatteries  which  follow  the  path  of 
Beauty  through  the  crowd.  Alas,  and  alas ! 
Let  the  tale  huiTj  on  I 

Jasper  Losely  has  still  more  solemnly  sworn 
to  marry  his  adored  Arabella.  But  when  ? 
When  they  are  rich  enough.  She  feels  as  if 
her  spirit  was  gone  —  as  if  she  could  work  no 
more.  She  was  no  weak,  commonplace  girl, 
whom  love  can  console  for  shame.  She  had 
been  rigidly  brought  up-  her  sense  of  female 
rectitude  was  keen  ;  her  remorse  was  noiseless, 
but  it  was  stern.  Harassments  of  a  more  vul- 
gar nature  beset  her ;  she  had  forestalled  her 
sources  of  income ;  she  had  contracted  debts 
for  Jasper's  sake  :  in  vain,  her  purse  was  emp- 
tied, yet  his  no  fuller.  His  creditors  pressed 
him  ;  he  told  her  that  he  must  hide.  One  win- 
ter's day  he  thus  departed :  she  saw  him  no 
more  for  a  year.  She  heard,  a  few  days  after 
he  left  her,  of  his  father's  crime  and  committrd. 
Jasper  was  sent  abroad  by  his  maternal  uncle, 
at  his  father's  prayer  ;  sent  to  a  commercial 
house  in  France,  in  which  the  uncle  obtained 
him  a  situation.  In  fact,  the  young  man  had 
been  dispatched  to  France  under  another  name, 
in  order  to  save  him  from  the  obloquy  which  his 
father  had  brought  upon  his  own. 

Soon  came  William  Losely's  trial  and  sen- 
tence. Arabella  felt  the  disgrace  acutely — felt 
how  it  would  affect  the  audacious,  insolent  Jas- 
per ;  did  not  wonder  that  he  forebore  to  write  to 
her.  She  conceived  him  bowed  by  shame,  but  she 
was  buoyed  up  by  her  conviction  that  they  should 
meet  again.  For  good  or  for  ill,  she  held  her- 
self bound  to  him  for  life.  But  meanwhile  the 
debts  she  had  incurred  on  his  account  came 
upon  her.  She  was  forced  to  dispose  of  her 
house ;  and  at  this  time  ]Mrs.  Lyndsay,  looking 
out  for  some  first-rate  sujjerior  governess  for 
Matilda  Darrell,  was  urged  by  all  means  to  try 
and  secure  for  that  post  Arabella  Fossett.  The 
highest  testimonials  from  the  school  at  which 
she  had  been  reared,  from  the  most  eminent 
professional  masters,  from  the  families  at  which 
she  had  recently  taught,  being  all  brought  to 
bear  upon  Mr.  Darrell,  he  authorized  Mrs. 
Lyndsay  to  propose  such  a  salary  as  could  not 
fail  to  secure  a  teacher  of  such  rare  qualifica- 
tions. And  thus  Arabella  became  governess  to 
Miss  Dan-ell. 

There  is  a  kind  of  young  lady  of  whom  her 
nearest  relations  will  say,  "I  can't  make  that 
girl  out."  Matilda  Darrell  was  that  kind  of 
young  lady.  She  talked  very  little  ;  she  moved 
very  noiselessly ;  she  seemed  to  regard  herself 
as  a  secret  which  she  had  solemnly  sworn  not  to 
let  out.  She  had  been  steeped  in  slyness  from 
her  early  infancy  by  a  sly  mother.  Mrs.  Dar- 
rell was  a  woman  who  had  always  something  to 
conceal.  There  was  always  some  note  to  be 
thrust  out  of  sight ;  some  visit  not  to  be  spoken 
of;  something  or  other  which  Matilda  was  not 
on  any  account  to  mention  to  Pajia. 

When  Mrs.  Darrell  died,  Matilda  was  still  a 
child,  but  she  still  continued  to  view  her  father 


j  as  a  person  against  whom  prudence  demanded 
her  to  be  constantly  on  her  guard.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  exactly  afraid  of  him — he  was  very 
gentle  to  her,  as  he  was  to  all  children;  but 
his  loyal  nature  was  antipathetic  to  hers.  She 
had  no  sympathy  with  him.  How  confide  her 
thoughts  to  him  ?  She  had  an  instinctive  knowl- 
edge that  those  thoughts  were  not  such  as  could 
harmonize  with  his.  Yet,  though  taciturn,  un- 
caressing,  undemonstrative,  she  appeared  mild 
and  docile.  Her  reserve  was  ascribed  to  consti- 
tutional timidity.  Timid  to  a  degree  she  usually 
seemed  ;  yet,  when  you  thought  you  had  solved 
the  enigma,  she  said  or  did  something  so  coolly 
determined,  that  you  were  forced  again  to  ex- 
claim, "  I  can't  mal^e  that  girl  out  I"  She  was 
not  quick  at  her  lessons.  You  had  settled  in 
your  mind  that  she  was  dull,  when,  by  a  chance 
remark,  you  were  startled  to  find  that  she  was 
very  sharp;  keenly  observant,  v.hen  you  had 
fancied  h'fer  fast  asleep.  She  had  seemed,  since 
her  mother's  death,  more  fond  of  ^Irs.  Lyndsay 
and  Caroline  than  of  any  other  human  beings 
— always  appeared  sullen  or  out  of  spirits  when 
they  were  absent ;  yet  she  confided  to  them  no 
more  than  she  did  to  her  father.  You  would 
suppose  from  this  description  that  Matilda  could 
inspire  no  liking  in  those  with  whom  she  lived, 
Xot  so ;  her  very  secretiveness  had  a  sort  of  at- 
traction— a  puzzle  always  creates  some  interest. 
Then  her  face,  though  neither  handsome  nor 
pretty,  had  in  it  a  treacherous  softness — a  sub- 
dued, depressed  expression.  A  kind  observer 
could  not  but  say  with  an  indulgent  pity,  "  There 
must  be  a  good  deal  of  heart  in  that  girl,  if  one 
could  but — make  her  out." 

She  appeared  to  take  at  once  to  Arabella, 
more  than  she  had  taken  to  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  or 
even  to  Caroline,  with  whom  she  had  been 
brought  up  as  a  sister,  but  who,  then  joyous  and 
quick  and  innocently  fearless — with  her  soul 
in  her  eyes  and  her  heart  on  her  lips — had  no 
charm  for  Matilda,  because  there  she  saw  no 
secret  to  penetrate,  and  her  she  had  no  object 
in  deceiving. 

But  this  stranger,  of  accomplishments  so  rare, 
of  character  so  decided,  with  a  settled  gloom  on 
her  lip,  a  gathered  care  on  her  brow — there  was 
some  one  to  study,  and  some  one  with  whom 
she  felt  a  sympathy ;  for  she  detected  at  once 
that  Arabella  was  also  a  secret. 

At  first,  Arabella,  absorbed  in  her  own  re- 
flections, gave  to  Matilda  but  the  mechanical 
attention  which  a  professional  teacher  bestows 
on  an  ordinary  pupil.  But  an  interest  in  Ma- 
tilda sprung  up  in  her  breast,  in  proportion  as 
she  conceived  a  venerating  gratitude  for  DaiTell. 
He  was  aware  of  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
which  had  surrounded  her  earlier  years  ;  he  re- 
spected the  creditable  energy  with  which  she 
had  devoted  her  talents  to  the  support  of  the 
young  children  thro^n-n  upon  her  care  ;  compas- 
sionated her  bereavement  of  those  little  fellow- 
orphans  for  whom  toil  had  been  rendered  sweet; 
and  he  strove,  by  a  kindness  of  forethought  and 
a  delicacy  of  attention,  which  were  the  more 
prized  in  a  man  so  eminent  and  so  preoccupied, 
to  make  her  forget  tliat  she  was  a  salaried 
teacher — to  place  her  saliently,  and  as  a  matter 
of  course,  in  the  position  of  gentlewoman,  guest, 
and  friend.  Recognizing  in  her  a  certain  vigor 
and  force  of  intellect  apart  from  her  mere  ac- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


TS9 


complishments,  he  would  flatter  her  scholastic 
pride,  by  referring  to  her  memory  in  some  ques- 
tion of  reading,  or  consulting  her  judgment  on 
some  point  of  critical  taste.  She,  in  return, 
was  touched  by  his  chivalrous  kindness  to  the 
depth  of  a  nature  that,  though  already  seriously 
injured  by  its  unhappy  contact  with  a  soul  like 
Jasper's,  retained  that  capacity  of  gratitude,  the 
loss  of  which  is  humanity's  last  depravation. 
Xor  this  alone :  Arabella  was  startled  by  the 
intellect  and  character  of  Dan-ell  into  that  kind 
of  homage  which  a  woman,  who  has  hitherto 
met  but  her  own  intellectual  inferiors,  renders 
to  the  first  distinguished  personage  in  whom  she 
recognizes,  half  with  humility  and  half  with 
awe,  an  understanding  and  a  culture  to  which 
her  own  reason  is  but  the  flimsy  glass-house, 
and  her  own  knowledge  but  the  forced  exotic. 

Arabella,  thus  roused  from  her  first  listless- 
ness,  sought  to  requite  DaiTcll's  kindness  by  ex- 
erting ever)-  enerdf  to  render  his  insipid  daugh- 
ter an  accomplisned  woman.  So  far  as  mere 
ornamental  education  extends,  the  teacher  was 
more  successful  than,  with  all  her  experience, 
her  skill,  and  her  zeal,  she  had  presumed  to 
anticipate.  Matilda,  without  ear  or  taste,  or 
love  for  music,  became  a  veiy  fair  mechanical 
musician.  Without  one  artistic  predisposition, 
she  achieved  the  science  of  perspective — she  at- 
tained even  to  the  mixture  of  colors — she  filled 
a  portfolio  with  di'awings  which  no  young  lady 
need  have  been  ashamed  to  see  circling  round  a 
drawing-room.  She  carried  Matilda's  thin  mind 
to  the  farthest  bound  it  could  have  reached  with- 
out snapping,  through  an  elegant  range  of  se- 
lected histories  and  harmless  feminine  classics 
— through  Gallic  dialogues — through  Tuscan 
themes — through  Teuton  verbs — yea,  across  the 
invaded  bounds  of  astonished  Science  into  the 
Elementary  Ologies.  And  all  this  being  done, 
Matilda  Darrell  was  exactly  the  same  creature 
that  she  was  before.  In  all  that  related  to  char- 
acter, to  inclinations,  to  heart,  even  tliat  consum- 
mate teacher  could  give  no  intelligible  answer, 
when  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  in  her  softest  accents  (and  no 
accents  ever  were  softer),  sighed — ''Poor,  dear 
Matilda  I  can  yon  make  her  out,  Miss  Fossett?" 
Miss  Fossett  could  not  make  her  out.  But,  after 
the  most  attentive  study.  Miss  Fossett  had  inly  de- 
cided that  there  was  nothing  to  make  out — that, 
like  many  other  very  nice  girls,  Matilda  Darrell 
was  a  harmless  nullity,  what  you  call  '•  a  miss." 
White  deal  or  willow,  to  v.liich  ]Miss  Fossett  had 
done  all  in  the  way  of  increasing  its  value  as 
ornamental  furniture,  when  she  had  veneered  it 
over  with  rosewood  or  satin-wood,  enriched  its 
edges  with  ormolu,  and  strewed  its  surface  with 
nicknacks  and  albums.  But  Arabella  firmly 
believed  Matilda  Darrell  to  be  a  quiet,  honest, 
good  sort  of  '-miss,"  on  the  whole — very  fond 
of  her,  Arabella.  The  teacher  had  been  several 
months  in  Darrell's  family,  when  Caroline  Lynd- 
say, who  had  been  almost  domesticated  "with 
Matilda  (sharing  the  lessons  bestowed  on  the 
latter,  whether  by  jNIiss  Fossett  or  -(-isiting  mas- 
ters), was  taken  away  by  Mrs.  Lyndsay  on  a 
visit  to  the  old  ^Marchioness  of  IMontfort.  Ma- 
tilda, who  was  to  come  out  the  next  year,  was 
thus  almost  exclusively  with  xirabella,  who  re- 
doubled all  her  pains  to  veneer  the  white  deal, 
and  protect  with  ormolu  its  feeble  edges — so 
that,  wlien  it  "  came  out,"  all  should  admire ! 


that  thoroughly  fashionable  piece  of  furniture. 
It  was  the  habit  of  ^liss  Fossett  and  her  pupil 
to  take  a  morning  walk  in  the  quiet  retreats  of 
the  Green  Park ;  and  one  morning  as  they  were 
thus  strolling,  nurserj'-maids  and  children,  and 
elderly  folks,  who  were  ordered  to  take  earlv 
exercise,  undulating  round  their  unsuspecting 
way  —  suddenly,  right  upon  their  path  (un- 
looked-for as  the  wolf  that  startled  Horace  in 
the  Sabine  wood,  but  infinitely  more  deadly 
than  that  runaway  animal),  came  Jasper  Lose- 
ly  !  Arabella  uttered  a  faint  scream.  She 
could  not  resist — had  no  thought  of  resistintr — 
the  impulse  to  bound  fonvard — lay  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  She  was  too  agitated  to  perceive 
whether  his  predominant  feehng  was  surprise 
or.  rapture.  A  few  hurried  words  were  ex- 
changed, while  Matilda  Dan-ell  gave  one  side- 
long glance  toward  the  handsome  stranger,  and 
walked  quietly  by  them.  On  his  part,  Jasper 
said  that  he  had  just  returned  to  London — that 
he  had  abandoned  forever  all  idea  of  a  commer- 
cial life — that  his  fathers  misfortune  (he  gave 
that  gentle  appellation  to  the  incident  of  penal 
transportation)  had  severed  him  frcm  all  former 
friends,  ties,  habits — that  he  had  dropped  the 
name  of  Losely  forever — entreated  Arabella  not 
to  betray  it — his  name  now  was  Hammond^his 
"prospects,"  he  said,  "fairer  than  they  had 
ever  been."  L'nder  the  name  of  Hammond,  as 
an  independent  gentleman,  he  had  made  friends 
more  powerful  than  he  could  ever  have  made 
under  the  name  of  Losely  as  a  city  clerk.  He 
blushed  to  think  he  had  ever  been  a  city  clerk. 
No  doubt  he  should  get  into  some  Government 
office  ;  and  then,  oh  then,  with  assured  income, 
and  the  certainty  to  rise,  he  might  claim  the 
longed-for  hand  of  the  "  best  of  creatures." 

On  Arabella's  part,  she  hastily  explained  her 
present  position.  She  was  governess  to  ISIiss 
Darrell — that  was  iliss  Danell.  Arabella  must 
not  leave  her  walking  on  by  herself — she  would 
write  to  him.  Addresses  were  exchanged — 
Jasper  gave  a  very  neat  card — "  Jlr.  Ham- 
mond, No. ,  Duke  Street,  St.  James's." 

Arabella,  with  a  beating  heart,  hastened  to 
join  her  friend.  At  the  rapid  glance  she  had 
taken  of  her  perfidious  lover,  she  thought  him, 
if  possible,  improved.  His  dress,  always  stud- 
ied, was  more  to  the  fashion  of  polished  society, 
more  simply  correct  —  his  air  more  decided. 
Altogether  he  looked  prosperous,  and  his  man- 
ner had  never  been  more  seductive,  in  its  mix- 
ture of  easy  self-confidence  and  hypocritical 
coaxing.  In  fact,  Jasper  had  not  been  long 
in  the  French  commercial  house — to  which  he 
had  been  sent  out  of  the  way  while  his  fathers 
trial  was  proceeding  and  the  shame  of  it  fresh 
— before  certain  licenses  of  conduct  had  result- 
ed in  his  dismissal.  But,  meanwhile,  he  had 
made  many  friends  among  young  men  of  his 
own  age — those  loose  wild  viveurs  who,  without 
doing  any  thing  the  law  can  punish  as  dishon- 
est, contrive  for  a  few  fast  years  to  live  very 
showily  on  their  wits.  In  that  strange  social 
fermentation  which  still  prevails  in  a  country 
where  an  aristocracy  of  birth,  exceedingly  im- 
poverished, and  exceedingly  numerous  so  far  as 
the  right  to  prefix  a  I>e  to  the  name,  or  to  stamp 
a  coronet  on  the  card,  can  constitute  an  aristo- 
crat— is  difi\ised  among  an  ambitious,  adventur- 
ous, restless,  and  not  inelegant  young  democracy 


190 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


— each  cemented  with  the  other  by  that  fiction 
of  law  called  egaUte ;  in  that  yet  unsettled  and 
struggling  society  in  which  so  much  of  the  old 
has  been  irretrievably  destroyed,  and  so  little  of 
the  new  has  been  solidly  constructed — there  are 
much  greater  varieties,  infinitely  more  subtle 
grades  and  distinctions,  in  the  region  of  life 
which  lies  between  respectability  and  disgrace, 
than  can  be  found  in  a  country  like  ours.  The 
French  novels  and  dramas  may  appl}'  less  a 
mirror  than  a  magnifying-glass  to  the  beings 
that  move  through  that  region.  But  still  those 
French  novels  and  dramas  do  not  unfaithfully 
represent  the  classifications  of  which  they  ex- 
aggerate the  types.  Those  strange  combina- 
tions, into  one  tableau,  of  students  and  grisettes, 
opera-dancers,  authors,  viscounts,  swindlers,  ro- 
mantic Lorettes,  gamblers  on  the  Bourse,  whose 
pedigree  dates  from  the  Crusades ;  impostors, 
taking  titles  from  villages  in  which  their  grand- 
sires  might  have  been  saddlers  ;  and  if  detected, 
the  detection  but  a  matter  of  laugh  ;  delicate 
women  living  like  lawless  men ;  men  making 
trade  out  of  love,  like  dissolute  women,  yet  with 
point  of  honor  so  nice,  that,  doubt  their  truth 
or  tlieir  courage,  and — pitf!  you  are  in  Charon's 
boat,  humanity  in  every  civilized  land  may  pre- 
sent single  specimens,  more  or  less,  answering 
to  each  thus  described.  But  where,  save  in 
France,  find  them  all,  if  not  pi'ccisely  in  the 
same  salons,  yet  so  crossing  each  other  to  and 
fro,  as  to  constitute  a,  social  phase,  and  give 
color  to  a  literature  of  unquestionable  genius? 
And  where,  over  orgies  so  miscellaneousl}'  Bery- 
cynthian,  an  atmosphere  so  elegantly  Horatian? 
And  where  can  coarseness  so  vanish  into  pol- 
ished expression  as  in  that  diamond-like  lan- 
guage—  all  terseness  and  sparkle  —  which,  as 
friendly  to  Wit  in  its  airiest  jtrose,  as  hostile  to 
Passion  in  its  torrent  or  cloud  wrack  of  poetry, 
seems  invented  by  the  Gi'ace  out  of  spite  to  the 
Muse  ? 

Into  circles  such  as  those  of  which  the  dim 
outline  is  here  so  imperfectly  sketched,  Jasper 
Losely  niched  himself,  as  le  bel  Anglais.  (Pleas- 
ant representative  of  the  English  nation  !)  Not 
that  those  circles  are  to  have  the  sole  credit  of 
his  corruption.  No!  Justice  is  justice!  Stand 
we  up  for  our  native  land  !  Le  bcl  Anglais  en- 
tered those  circles  a  much  greater  knave  than 
most  of  those  whom  he  found  there.  But  there, 
at  least,  he  learned  to  set  a  yet  higher  value  on 
his  youth,  and  strength,  and  comeliness — on  his 
readiness  of  resource — on  the  reckless  audacity 
that  brow-beat  timid  and  some  even  valiant  men 
— on  the  six  feet  one  of  faultless  symmetry  that 
captivated  foolish,  and  some  even  sensible  wo- 
men. Gaming  was,  however,  his  vice  by  predi- 
lection. A  month  before  Arabella  met  him  he 
had  had  a  rare  run  of  luck.  On  the  strength 
of  it  he  had  resolved  to  return  to  London,  and 
(wholly  oblivious  of  "the  best  of  creatures"  till 
she  had  thus  startled  him)  hunt  out  and  swoop 
otf  with  an  heiress.  Three  French  friends  ac- 
companied him.  •Eacli  had  the  same  object. 
Eacli  believed  that  London  swarmed  with  heir- 
esses. Tliey  were  all  three  fine-looking  men. 
One  was  a  Count — at  least  he  said  so.  But  proud 
of  his  rank?  notabitofit:  all  for  liberty  (no  man 
more  likely  to  lose  it) — all  for  fraternity  (no  man 
you  would  less  love  as  a  brother).  And  as  for 
igulile'  the  son  of  a  shoemaker  who  was  homme 


de  lettres,  and  wrote  in  a  journal,  inserted  a 
jest  on  the  Count's  countship.  "All  men  are 
equal  before  the  pistol,"  said  the  Count ;  and 
knowing  that,  in  tliat  respect,  he 'was  equal  to 
most,  having  practiced  at  poupees  from  the  age 
of  fourteen,  he  called  out  the  son  of  Crispin  and 
shot  him  througii  the  lungs.  Another  of  Jas- 
per's traveling  friends  was  an  enfant  dupeuple — 
boasted  that  he  was  a  foundling.  He  made 
verses  of  lugubrious  strain,  and  taught  Jasper 
how  to  shuffle  at  whist.  The  third,  like  Jasper, 
had  been  designed  for  trade  ;  and,  like  Jasper, 
he  had  a  soul  above  it.  In  politics  he  was  a 
Communist — in  talk  a  Philanthropist.  He  was 
the  cleverest  man  of  them  all,  and  is  now  at  the 
galleys.  The  fate  of  his  two  compatriots — more 
obscure — it  is  not  my  duty  to  discover.  In  that 
peculiar  walk  of  life  Jasper  is  as  much  as  I  can 
possibly  manage. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  Jasper  carefully  ab- 
stained from  reminding  his  old  city  friends  of 
his  existence.  It  was  his  object  and  his  hope 
to  drop  all  identity  with  that  son  of  a  convict 
who  had  been  sent  out  of  the  way  to  escape  hu- 
miliation. In  this  resolve  he  was  the  more  con- 
firmed because  he  had  no  old  city  friends  out  of 
whom  any  thing  could  be  well  got.  His  jjoor 
uncle,  who  alone  of  his  relations  in  England  had 
been  ])rivy  to  his  change  of  name,  was  dead ; 
his  end  hastened  b\'  grief  for  William  Losely's 
disgrace,  and  the  bad  reports  he  had  received 
from  France  of  the"  conduct  of  William  Losely's 
son.  That  uncle  had  left,  in  circumstances  too 
straitened  to  admit  the  waste  of  a  shilling,  a 
widow  of  very  rigid  opinions ;  who,  if  ever  by 
some  miraculous  turn  in  the  wheel  of  fortune 
she  could  have  become  rich  enough  to  slay  a 
fatted  calf,  would  never  have  given  the  sliin- 
bone  of  it  to  a  prodigal  like  Jasper,  even  had  he 
been  her  own  penitent  son,  instead  of  a  grace- 
less step-nephew.  Therefore,  as  all  civilization 
proceeds  westward,  Jasper  turned  his  face  from 
the  east ;  and  had  no  more  idea  of  recrossing 
Temple  Bar  in  search  of  fortune,  friends,  or 
kindred,  than  a  modern  Welshman  would  dream 
of  a  pilgrimage  to  Asian  shores  to  re-embrace 
those  distant  relatives  whom  Hu  Gadarn  left 
behind  him  countless  centuries  ago,  when  that 
mythical  chief  conducted  his  faithful  Cymri- 
ans  over  the  Haz}'  Sea  to  this  happy  Island  of 
Honey.* 

Two  days  after  his  rencontre  with  Arabella  in 
the  Green  Park,  the  soi-disant  Hammond,  hav- 
ing, in  the  interim,  learned  that  Darrell  was 
immensely  rich,  and  IMatilda  his  only  surviving 
child,  did  not  fail  to  find  himself  in  the  Green 
Park  again — and  again — and  again  ! 

Arabella,  of  course,  felt  how  wrong  it  was  to 
allow  him  to  accost  her,  and  walk  by  one  side 
of  her  while  Miss  Darrell  was  on  the  other. 
But  she  felt,  also,  as  if  it  would  be  much  more 
wrong  to  slip  out  and  meet  him  alone.  Not  for 
worlds  would  she  again  have  placed  herself  in 
such  jieril.  To  refuse  to  meet  him  at  all  ? — 
she  had  not  strength  enough  for  tliat .'  Her  joy 
at  seeing  him  was  so  immense.  And  nothing 
could  be  more  respectful  than  Jasper's  manner 
and  conversation.  Whatever  of  warmer  and 
more  impassioned  sentiment  was  exchanged  be- 

*  Mel  Ynn'js—laXe.  of  Honey.  One  of  the  poetic 
names  given  to  England  in  the  language  of  the  ancient 
Britons. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


191 


tween  them  passed  in  notes.  Jasper  had  sug- 
gested to  Arabella  to  pass  liim  ofi'  to  Matilda  as 
some  near  relation.  But  Arabella  refused  all 
such  disguise.  Her  sole  claim  to  self-respect 
was  in  considering  him  solemnly  engaged  to 
her — the  man  she  was  to  marry.  And,  after 
the  second  time  they  thus  met,  she  said  to  ^la- 
tilda,  who  had  not  questioned  her  by  a  word — 
by  a  look — ''  I  was  to  be  married  to  that  gentle- 
man before  my  father  died;  we  are  to  be  married 
as  soon  as  we  have  something  to  live  upon." 

Matilda  made  some  commonplace  but  kindly 
rejoinder.  And  thus  she  became  raised  into 
Arabella's  confidence — so  far  as  that  confidence 
could  be  given,  without  betraying  Jasper's  real 
name,  or  one  darker  memory  in  herself.  Lux- 
iiiy,  indeed,  it  was  to  Arabella  to  find,  at  last, 
some  one  to  whom  she  could  speak  of  that  be- 
trothal in  which  her  whole  future  was  invested 
— of  that  affection /vhich  was  her  heart's  sheet- 
anchor — of  that  home,  humble  it  might  be,  and 
far  off,  but  to  which  Time  rarely  fails  to  bring 
the  Two,  if  never  weary  of  the  trust,  to  become 
as  One.  Talking  thus,  Arabella  forgot  the  re- 
lationship of  pupil  and  teacher;  it  was  as  wo- 
man to  woman — girl  to  girl — friend  to  friend. 
Matilda  seemed  touched  by  the  confidence — 
flattered  to  possess  at  last  another's  secret.  Ar- 
abella was  a  little  chafed  that  she  did  not  seem 
to  admire  Jasjier  as  much  as  Arabella  thought 
the  whole  world  must  admire,  ilatilda  excused 
herself.  "  She  had  scarcely  noticed  Mr.  Ham- 
mond. Yes;  she  had  no  doubt  he  would  be 
considered  handsome ;  but  she  owned,  though 
it  might  be  bad  taste,  that  she  preferred  a  pale 
complexion,  with  auburn  hair ;"  and  then  she 
sighed  and  looked  away,  as  if  she  had,  in  the 
course  of  her  secret  life,  encountered  some  fatal 
pale  complexion,  with  never-to-be-forgotten  au- 
burn hair.  Kot  a  word  was  said  by  either  Ma- 
tilda or  Arabella  as  to  concealing  from  Mr.  Dar- 
rell  these  meetings  with  Mr.  Hammond.  Per- 
haps xVrabella  could  not  stoop  to  ask  that  secrecy ; 
but  there  was  no  necessity  to  ask.  jMatilda  was 
always  too  rejoiced  to  have  something  to  con- 
ceaL 

Kow,  in  these  interviews,  Jasper  scarcely  ever 
addressed  himself  to  IMatilda  ;  not  twenty  spoken 
words  could  have  passed  between  them ;  yet,  in 
the  very  third  interview,  Matilda's  sly  fingers 
had  closed  on  a  sly  note.  And  from  that  day, 
in  each  inteniew,  Arabella  walking  in  the  cen- 
tre, Jasper  on  one  side,  Matilda  the  other — be- 
hind Arabella's  back — passed  the  sly  fingers  and 
the  sly  notes,  which  Matilda  received  and  an- 
swered. Not  more  than  twelve  or  fourteen  times 
was  even  this  interchange  effected.  DaiTell  was 
about  to  move  to  Fawley.  All  such  meetings 
would  be  now  suspended.  Two  or  three  morn- 
ings before  that  fixed  for  leaving  London  SLa- 
tilda's  room  was  found  vacant.  She  was  gone. 
Arabella  was  the  first  to  discover  her  flight,  the 
first  to  learn  its  cause.  INIatilda  had  left  on  her 
wi-iting-table  a  letter  for  Miss  Fossett.  It  was 
very  short,  very  quietly  expressed,  and  it  rested 
her  justification  on  a  note  from  Jasper,  which 
she  inclosed — a  note  in  which  that  gallant  hero, 
ridiculing  the  idea  that  he  could  ever  have  been 
in  love  with  Arabella,  declared  that  he  would 
destroy  himself  if  Matilda  refused  to  fly.  She 
need  not  fear  such  angelic  confidence  in  him. 
No !     Even 


■  Had  he  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
He  ne'er  could  injure  her." 


Stifling  each  noisier  cry — but  panting — gasp- 
ing— literally  half  out  of  her  mind,  Arabella 
rushed  into  Darrell's  study.  He,  unsuspecting 
man,  calmly  bending  over  his  dull  books,  was 
startled  by  her  apparition.  Few  minutes  sufficed 
to  tell  him  all  that  it  concerned  him  to  learn. 
Few  brief  questions,  few  passionate  answers, 
brought  him  to  the  very  M-orst. 

Who,  and  what,  was  this  Mr.  Hammond? 
Heaven  of  heavens  !  the  son  of  William  Losely 
— of  a  transported  felon ! 

Arabella  exulted  in  a  reply  which  gave  her 
a  moment's  triumph  over  the  rival  who  had 
filched  from  her  such  a  prize.  Koused  from  his 
first  misery  and  sense  of  abasement  in  this  dis- 
coveiy,  Dan-ell's  wrath  was  naturally  poured, 
not  on  the  fugitive  child,  but  on  the  frcntless 
woman,  who,  buoyed  up  by  her  own  rage  and 
sense  of  wrong,  faced  him,  and  did  not  cower. 
She,  the  faithless  governess,  had  presented  to 
her  pupil  this  convict's  son  in  another  name  ; 
she  owned  it  —  she  had  trepanned  into  the 
snares  of  so  vile  a  fortune-hunter,  an  ignorant 
child — she  might  feign  amaze — act  remorse — 
she  must  have  been  the  man's  accomplice. 
Stung,  amidst  all  the  bewilderment  of  her  an- 
guish, by  this  charge,  which,  at  least,  she  did 
not  deserve,  Arabella  tore  from  her  besom  Jas- 
per's recent  letters  to  herself — letters  all  devo- 
tion and  passion — placed  them  before  Darrell, 
and  bade  him  read.  Nothing  thought  she  then 
of  name  and  fame.  Nothing  but  of  her  wrongs 
and  of  her  woes.  Compared  to  herself,  Matilda 
seemed  the  perfidious  criminal — she  the  injured 
victim.  Darrell  but  glanced  over  the  letters  ; 
the}-  were  signed  "your  loving  husband." 

"What  is  this?"  he  exclaimed,  "are  you 
married  to  the  man  ?" 

"Yes,"  cried  Arabella,  "  in  the  eyes  of  Heav- 
en!" 

To  Darrell's  penetration  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  significance  of  those  words,  and  that 
look  ;  and  his  wrath  redoubled.  Anger  in  him, 
when  once  roused,  was  terrible ;  he  had  small 
need  of  words  to  vent  it.  His  eye  withered,  his 
gesture  appalled.  Conscious  but  of  one  burning 
firebrand  in  brain  and  heart — of  a  sense  that 
youth,  joy,  and  hope  were  for  ever  gone,  that 
the  world  could  never  be  the  same  again — Ara- 
bella left  the  house,  her  character  lost,  her 
talents  useless,  her  ven-  means  of  existence 
stopped.  Who  henceforth  would  take  her  to 
teach  ?  Who  henceforth  place  their  children 
under  her  charge  ? 

She  shrank  into  a  gloomy  lodging — she  shut 
herself  up  alone  with  her  despair.  Strange 
though  it  may  seem,  her  anger  against  Jasper 
was  slight  as  compared  with  the  intensity  of 
her  hate  to  JMatilda.  And  stranger  still  it  may 
seem,  that  as  her  thoughts  recovered  from  their 
first  chaos,  she  felt  more  embittered  against  the 
world,  more  crushed  by  a  sense  of  shame,  and 
yet  galled  by  a  no  less  keen  sense  of  injustice, 
in  recalling  the  scorn  with  which  Darrell  had 
rejected  all  excuse  for  her  conduct  in  the  misery 
it  had  occasioned  her,  than  she  did  by  tlie  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  lamentable  errors.  As  in 
Darrell's  esteem  there  was  something  that,  to 
those  who  could  appreciate  it,  seemed  invahaa- 
ble,  so  in  his  contempt  to  those  who  had  cherish- 


192 


SYHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


ed  that  esteem  there  was  a  weight  of  ignominy, 
as  if  a  judge  had  pronounced  a  sentence  that 
outlaws  the  rest  of  life. 

Arabella  had  not  much  left  out  of  her  muni- 
ficent salary.  What  she  had  hitherto  laid  by 
had  passed  to  Jasper — defraying,  perhaps,  the 
very  cost  of  his  flight  with  her  treacherous  rival. 
Wlien  her  money  was  gone,  she  pawned  the 
poor  relics  of  her  innocent  happy  girlhood,  which 
she  had  been  permitted  to  take  from  her  father's 
home,  and  had  borne  with  her  wherever  she 
went,  like  household  gods, — the  prize-books,  the 
lute,  the  costly  work-box,  the  very  bird-cage,  all 
which  the  reader  will  remember  to  have  seen 
in  her  later  life,  the  books  never  opened,  the 
lute  broken,  the  bird  long,  long,  long  vanished 
from  the  cage  !  Never  did  she  think  she  should 
redeem  those  pledges  from  that  Golgotha,  which 
takes,  rarely  to  give  back,  so  many  hallowed 
tokens  of  the  dreamland  called  '"better  days" 
— the  trinkets  worn  at  the  first  ball,  the  ring 
that  was  given  with  the  earliest  love-vow — yea, 
even  the  very  bells  and  coral  that  pleased  the 
infant  in  its  dainty  cradle,  and  the  very  Bible 
in  which  the  lips  that  now  bargain  for  sixpence 
more,  read  to  some  gi'ay-haired  father  on  his 
bed  of  death ! 

Soon  the  sums  thus  miserably  raised  were  as 
miserably  doled  away.  With  a  sullen  apathy 
the  woman  contemplated  famine.  She  would 
make  no  effort  to  live — appeal  to  no  relations, 
no  friends.  It  was  a  kind  of  vengeance  she  took 
on  others,  to  let  herself  drift  on  to  death.  She 
had  retreated  from  lodging  to  lodging,  each  ob- 
scurer, more  desolate  than  the  other.  Now,  she 
could  no  longer  pay  rent  for  the  humblest  room ; 
now,  she  was  told  to  go  forth — whither  ?  She 
knew  not — cared  not — took  her  way  toward  the 
river,  as  by  that  instinct  which,  when  the  mind 
is  diseased,  tends  toward  self-destruction,  scarce 
less  involuntarily  than  it  turns,  in  health,  to- 
ward self-preservation.  Just  as  she  passed  un- 
der the  lamplight  at  the  foot  of  Westminster 
Bridge,  a  well-dressed  man  looked  at  her,  and 
seized  her  arm.  She  raised  her  head  with  a 
chillv,  melancholy  scorn,  as  if  she  had  received 
an  insult — as  if  she  feared  that  the  man  knew 
the  stain  upon  her  name,  and  dreamed,  in  his 
folly,  that  the  dread  of  death  might  cause  her 
to  sin  again. 

"Do  you  not  know  me?"  said  the  man; 
"more  strange  that  I  should  recognize  you! 
Dear,  dear ! — and  what  a  dress  1 — how  you  are 
altered!     Poor  thing  I" 

At  the  words  "  Poor  thing !"  Arabella  burst 
into  tears  ;  and  in  those  tears  the  heavy  cloud 
on  her  brain  seemed  to  melt  away. 

"  I  have  been  inquiring,  seeking  for  you  eveiy 
where,  Miss,"  resumed  the  man.  "  Surely  you 
know  me  now !  Your  poor  aunt's  lawyer !  She 
is  no  more — died  last  week.*  She  has  left  you 
all  she  had  in  the  world  ;  and  a  very  pretty  in- 
come it  is,  too,  for  a  single  lady." 

Thus  it  was  that  we  find  Arabella  installed 
in  the  dreary  comforts  of  Poddcn  Place.  "She 
exchanged,"  she  said,  '•  in  iionor  to  her  aunt's 
memory,  her  own  name  for  that  of  Crane,  which 
her  aunt  had  borne — her  own  motlier's  maiden 
name."  She  assumed,  though  still  so  young,  that 
title  of  "Mrs."  which  spinsters, grown  venerable, 
moodily  adopt  when  they  desire  all  mankind  to 
know  that  henceforth  they  relinquish  the  vani- 


ties of  tender  misses — that,  become  mistress  of 
themselves,  they  defy  and  spit  upon  our  worth- 
less sex,  which,  whatever  its  repentance,  is  warn- 
ed that  it  repents  in  vain.  jNIost  of  her  aunt's 
property  was  in  houses,  in  various  districts  of 
Bloomsbury.  Arabella  moved  from  one  to  the 
other  of  these  tenements,  till  she  settled  for 
good  into  the  dullest  of  all.  To  make  it  duller 
yet,  by  contrast  with  the  past,  the  Golgotha  for 
once  gave  up  its  buried  treasures — broken  lute, 
birdless  cage ! 

Somewhere  about  two  years  after  Matilda's 
death,  Arabella  happened  to  be  in  the  otnce  of 
the  agent  who  collected  her  house-rents,  when  a 
well-dressed  man  entered,  and,  leaning  over  the 
counter,  said — "There  is  an  advertisement  in 
to-day's  Times  about  a  lady  who  offers  a  home, 
education,  and  so  forth,  to  any  little  motherless 
girl ;  terms  moderate,  as  said  lady  loves  chil- 
dren for  their  own  sake.  Advertiser  refers  to 
j'our  office  for  particulars — give  them  I" 

The  agent  turned  to  his  books  ;  and  Arabella 
turned  toward  the  inquirer.  "For  whose  child 
do  you  want  a  home,  Jasper  Losely  ?" 

Jasper  started.  "Arabella!  Best  of  creat- 
ures !  And  can  you  deign  to  speak  to  such  a 
vil " 

"Hush — let  us  walk.  Never  mind  the  ad- 
vertisement of  a  stranger.  I  may  find  a  home 
for  a  motherless  child — a  home  that  will  cost 
you  nothing." 

She  drew  him  into  the  street.  "  But  can  this 
be  the  child  of — of — Matilda  Darrell  ?" 

"  Bella  I"  replied,  in  coaxing  accents,  that 
most  execrable  of  lady-killers,  "  can  I  trust 
you  ?  —  can  you  be  my  friend  in  spite  of  my 
having  been  such  a  very  sad  dog?  But  money 
— what  can  one  do  without  money  in  this  world  ? 
'  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed,  it  would 
ne'er  have  injured  you' — if  I  had  not  been  so 
cursedly  hard  up  I  And  indeed  now,  if  you 
would  but  condescend  to  forgive  and  forget,  per- 
haps some  day  or  other  we  may  be  Darby  and 
Joan — only,  you  see,  just  at  this  moment  I  am 
really  not  worthy  of  such  a  Joan.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  I  am  a  widower — not  inconsola- 
ble." 

"Yes:  I  read  of  Mrs.  Hammond's  death  in 
an  old  newspaper." 

"  And  you  did  not  read  of  her  baby's  death, 
too — some  weeks  afterward?" 

"No;  it  is  seldom  th^t  I  see  a  newspaper. 
Is  the  infant  dead?" 

"Hum — you  shall  hear."  And  Jasjier  en- 
tered into  a  recital,  to  which  Arabella  listened 
with  attentive  interest.  At  the  close  she  ofi'er- 
ed  to  take  herself  the  child  for  whom  Jasper 
sought  a  home.  She  informed  him  of  her 
change  of  name  and  address.  The  wretch 
promised  to  call  that  evening  with  the  infant; 
but  he  sent  the  infant,  and  did  not  call.  Nor 
did  he  present  himself  again  to  her  eyes,  until, 
several  years  afterward,  those  eyes  so  luridly 
welcomed  him  to  Podden  Place.  But  though 
lie  did  not  even  condescend  to  write  to  her  in 
the  mean  while,  it  is  probable  tliat  Arabella  con- 
trived to  learn  more  of  his  habits  and  mode  of 
life  at  Paris  than  she  intimated  when  they  once 
more  met  face  to  fiice. 

And  now  the  reader  knows  more  than  Alban 
Morley,  or  Guy  Darrell  perhaps  ever  will  know, 
of  the  grim  woman  in  iron  gray. 


WHAT  "WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


193 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Sweet  are  the  uses  of  Adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  anj  venoraoua. 
Bears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  its  head." 

Most  persons  will  agree  that  the  toad  is  ugly  and  ven- 
omous, but  few  indeed  are  the  persons  who  can  boast 
of  having  actually  discovered  that  "  precious  jewel  in 
its  head"  whicii  the  poet  assures  us  is  placed  there. 
But  calamity  may  be  classed  in  two  great  divisions — 
1st,  The  afSictions,  which  no  prudence  can  avert :  '2d, 
The  misfortunes,  which  men  take  all  possible  pains  to 
bring  upon  themselves.  Afflictions  of  the  first  cla^s 
may  but  call  forth  our  virtues,  and  result  in  our  ulti- 
mate good.  Such  is  the  adversity  which  may  give  us 
the  jewel.  But  to  get  at  the  jewel  we  must  kill  the 
toad.  Misfortunes  of  the  second  class  but  too  often  in- 
crease the  erroi's  or  the  vices  by  which  they  were  cre- 
ated. Such  is  the  adversity  which  is  all  toad  and  no 
jewel.  If  you  choose  to  breed  and  fatten  your  own 
toads,  the  increase  of  the  venom  absorbs  every  bit  of 
the  jeweL 

Xevzk  did  I  knoK'  a  man  who  was  an  habit- 
ual gambler,  otherwi.se  than  notably  inaccnrate 
in  his  calculations  of  probabilities  in  the  ordi- 
nary affairs  of  life.  Is  it  that  such  a  man  has 
become  so  chronic  a  drunkard  of  hope,  that  he 
sees  double  every  chance  in  his  favor  ? 

Jasper  Losely  had  counted  upon  two  things 
as  matters  of  course. 

1st.  Darrell's  speedy  reconciliation  with  his 
only  child. 

2d.  That  Darrell's  only  child  must  of  neces- 
sity he  Darrell's  heiress. 

Ill  both  these  expectations  the  gambler  was 
deceived. 

Darrell  did  not  even  answer  the  letters  that 
Matilda  addressed  to  him  from  France,  to  the 
shores  of  which  Jasper  had  borne  her,  and 
where  he  had  hastened  to  make  her  his  wife 
under  his  assumed  name  of  Hammond,  but  his 
true  Christian  name  of  Jasjjer. 

In-  tlie  disreputable  marriage  Matilda  had 
made  all  the  worst  parts  of  her  character  seem- 
ed suddenly  revealed  to  her  father's  eye,  and 
he  saw  what  he  had  hitherto  sought  not  to  see, 
the  tnie  child  of  a  worthless  mother.  A  mere 
mesalliance,  if  palliated  by  long  or  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  the  object,  however  it  might 
have  galled  him,  his  heart  might  have  pardon- 
ed ;  but  here,  without  even  a  struggle  of  duty, 
without  the  ordinary  coyness  of  maiden  pride, 
to  be  won  with  so  scanty  a  wooing,  by  a  man 
who  she  knew  was  betrothed  to  another — the 
dissimulation,  the  perfidy,  the  combined  effront- 
ery and  meanness  of  the  whole  transaction,  left 
no  force  in  Darrell's  eyes  to  the  commonplace 
excuses  of  inexperience  and  youth.  Darrell 
would  not  have  been  Dan-ell  if  he  could  have 
taken  back  to  his  home  or  his  heart  a  daugh- 
ter so  old  in  deceit,  so  experienced  in  thoughts 
that  dishonor. 

Darrell's  silence,  however,  little  saddened  the 
heartless  bride,  and  little  dismayed  the  san- 
guine bridegroom.  Both  thought  that  pardon 
and  plenty  were  but  the  affair  of  time — a  little 
more  or  little  less.  But  their  funds  rapidly  di- 
minished ;  it  became  necessary  to  recruit  them. 
One  can't  live  in  hotels  entirely  upon  hope. 
Leaving  his  bride  for  a  while  in  a  pleasant  pro- 
vincial town,  not  many  hours  distant  from 
Paris,  Jasper  returned  to  London,  intent  upon 
seeing  Darrell  himself;  and  should  the  father- 
in-law  still  defer  articles  of  peace,  Jasper  be- 
lieved that  he  could  have  no  trouble  in  raising 
a  present  supply  upon  such  an  El  Dorado  of  fu- 


ture expectations.  Darrell  at  once  consented 
to  see  Jasper,  not  at  his  own  house,  but  at  his 
solicitor's.  Smothering  all  opposing  disgust,  the 
proud  gentleman  deemed  this  condescension  es- 
sential to  the  clear  and  definite  understanding 
of  those  resolves  upon  which  depended  the  world- 
ly station  and  prospects  of  the  wedded  pair. 

When  Jasper  was  shown  into  Jlr.  Gotobed's 
office,  Darrell  was  alone,  standing  near  the 
hearth,  and  by  a  single  quiet  gesture  repelled 
that  tender  rush  toward  his  breast  which  Jas- 
per had  elaborately  prepared ;  and  thus  for  the 
first  time  the  two  men  saw  each  other,  Darrell 
perhaps  yet  more  resentfully  mortified  while 
recognizing  those  personal  advantages  in  the 
showy  profligate  which  had  rendered  a  daughter 
of  his  house  so  facile  a  conquest :  Jasper  (who 
had  chosen  to  believe  that  a  father-in-law  so 
eminent  must  necessarily  be  old  and  broken) 
shocked  into  the  most  disagreeable  surprise  by 
the  sight  of  a  man  still  young,  under  forty,  with 
a  countenance,  a  port,  a  presence,  that  in  any 
assemblage  would  have  attracted  the  general 
gaze  from  his  own  brilliant  self,  and  looking  al- 
together as  unfavorable  an  object,  whether  for 
pathos  or  for  post-obits,  as  unlikely  to  breathe 
out  a  blessing  or  to  give  up  the  ghost,  as  the 
worst  brute  of  a  father-in-law  could  possibly  be. 
Nor  were  Darrell's  words  more  comforting  than 
his  aspect. 

"  Sir,  I  have  consented  to  see  you,  partly  that 
you  may  learn  from  my  own  lijis  once  for  all  that 
I  admit  no  man's  right  to  enter  my  family  with- 
out my  consent,  and  that  consent  you  will  never 
receive,  and  partly  that,  thus  knowing  each  oth- 
er by  sight,  each  may  know  the  man  it  becomes 
him  most  to  avoid.  The  lady  who  is  now  your 
wife  is  entitled  by  my  marriage-settlement  to 
the  reversion  of  a  small  fortune  at  my  death : 
nothing  more  from  me  is  she  likely  to  inherit! 
As  I  have  no  desire  that  she  to  whom  I  once 
gave  the  name  of  daughter  should  be  dependent 
wholly  on  yourself  for  bread,  my  solicitor  will 
inform  you  on  what  conditions  I  am  willing, 
during  my  life,  to  pay  the  interest  of  the  sum 
which  will  pass  to  your  wife  at  my  death.  Sir, 
I  return  to  your  hands  the  letters  that  lady  has 
addressed  to  me,  and  which,  it  is  easy  to  per- 
ceive, were  written  at  your  dictation.'  Xo  let- 
ter from  her  will  I  answer.  Across  my  thresh- 
old her  foot  will  never  pass.  Thus,  Sir,  con- 
cludes all  possible  intercotirse  between  you  and 
myself;  what  rests  is  between  you  and  that 
gentleman." 

Darrell  had  opened  a  side-door  in  speaking 
the  last  words — pointed  toward  the  respectable 
form  of  Mr.  Gotobed  standing  tall  beside  his 
tall  desk — and,  before  Jasper  could  put  in  a 
word,  the  father-in-law  was  gone. 

With  becoming  brevity  Mr.  Gotobed  made 
Jasper  fully  aware  that  not  only  all  Mr.  Dar- 
rell's funded  or  personal  property  was  entirely 
at  his  own  disposal — that  not  only  the  large 
landed  estates  he  had  purchased  (and  which 
Jasper  had  vaguely  deemed  inherited  and  in 
strict  entail)  were  in  the  same  condition — con- 
dition enviable  to  the  proprietor,  odious  to  the 
bridegroom  of  the  proprietor's  sole  daughter; 
but  that  even  the  fee-simple  of  the  poor  Fawley 
Manor-House  and  lands  was  vested  in  Darrell. 
encumbered  only  by  the  portion  of  £10,000 
which  the  late  Mrs.  Darrell  had  brought  to  her 


194 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


husband,  and  which  was  settled,  at  the  death  of 
herself  and  Darrell,  on  the  children  of  the  mar- 
riage. 

In  the  absence  of  marriage-settlements  be- 
tween Jasper  and  Matilda,  that  sum  at  Darrell's 
death  was  liable  to  be  claimed  by  Jasper,  in 
right  of  his  wife,  so  as  to  leave  no  certainty  that 
provision  would  remain  for  the  support  of  his 
wife  and  family ;  and  the  contingent  reversion 
might,  in  the  mean  time,  be  so  dealt  with  as  to 
bring  eventful  poverty  on  them  all. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  will  be  quite  frank 
with  you.  It  is  my  wish,  acting  for  Mr.  Dar- 
rell, so  to  settle  this  sum  of  £10,000  on  your 
wife,  and  any  children  she  may  bear  you,  as  to 
place  it  out  of  your  power  to  anticiiJate  or  dis- 
pose of,  even  with  Mrs.  Hammond's  consent.  If 
you  part  with  that  power,  not  at  present  a  val- 
uable one,  you  are  entitled  to  compensation. 
I  am  prepared  to  make  that  compensation  lib- 
eral. Perhaps  you  would  prefer  communicating 
with  me  through  your  own  solicitor.  But  I 
should  tell  you,  that  the  tei'ms  are  more  likely 
to  be  advantageous  to  you,  in  proportion  as  ne- 
gotiation is  confined  to  us  two.  It  might,  for 
instance,  be  expedient  to  tell  your  solicitor  that 
your  true  name  (I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons) 
is  not  Hammond.  That  is  a  secret  which,  the 
more  you  can  keep  it  to  yourself,  the  better  I 
think  it  will  be  for  you.  We  have  no  wish  to 
blab  it  out." 

Jasper  by  this  time  had  somewhat  recovered 
the  first  shock  of  displeasure  and  disappoint- 
ment ;  and  with  that  quickness  which  so  errat- 
ically darted  through  a  mind  that  contrived  to 
be  dull  when  any  thing  honest  was  addressed 
to  its  apprehension,  he  instantly  divined  that 
his  real  name  of  Losely  was  worth  something. 
He  had  no  idea  of  resuming — was,  indeed,  at 
that  time  anxious  altogether  to  ignore  and  es- 
chew it ;  but  he  had  a  right  to  it,  and  a  man's 
rights  are  not  to  be  resigned  for  nothing.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  said  with  some  asperity,  "I  aiiall 
resume  my  family  name  whenever  I  choose  it. 
If  Mr.  Darrell  does  not  like  his  daughter  to  be 
called  Mrs.  Jasper  Losely — or  all  the  malig- 
nant tittle-tattle  which  my  poor  father's  unfor- 
tunate trial  might  provoke — he  must,  at  least, 
ask  me  as  a  favor  to  retain  the  name  I  have 
temporarily  adopted — a  name  in  my  family.  Sir. 
A  Losely  married  a  Hammond,  I  forget  when 
— generations  ago — you'll  see  it  in  the  ]3aronet- 
age.  JNIy  grandfather,  Sir  Julian,  Avas  not  a 
crack  lawyer,  but  he  was  a  baronet  of  as  good 
birth  as  any  in  the  country ;  and  my  father, 
Sir" — (Jasper's  voice  trembled) — "my  father," 
he  repeated,  fiercely  striking  his  clenched  hand 
on  the  table,  "  was  a  gentleman  every  inch  of 
his  body ;  and  I'll  pitch  any  man  out  of  the 
window  who  says  a  word  to  the  contrary !" 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Gotobed,  shrinking  toward 
the  bell-pull,  "I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  had  bet- 
ter see  your  solicitor." 

Jasper  cooled  down  at  that  suggestion ;  and, 
with  a  slight  apology  for  natural  excitement, 
begged  to  know  what  Mr.  Gotobed  wished  to 
propose.  To  make  an  end  of  this  part  of  tlie 
story,  after  two  or  three  interviews,  in  which  the 
two  negotiators  learned  to  understand  each  oth- 
er, a  settlement  was  legally  completed,  by  which 
the  sum  of  £10,000  was  inalienably  settled  on 
Matilda,  and  her  children  by  her  marriage  with 


Jasper ;  in  case  he  survived  her,  the  interest 
was  to  be  his  for  life — in  case  she  died  childless, 
the  capital  would  devolve  to  himself  at  Darrell's 
decease.  Meanwhile,  Darrell  agreed  to  pay 
£500  a  year,  as  the  interest  of  the  £10,000  at 
five  per  cent,  to  Jasper  Hammond,  or  his  order, 
provided  always  that  Jasper  and  his  wife  con- 
tinued to  reside  together,  and  fixed  that  resi- 
dence abroad. 

By  a  private  verbal  arrangement,  not  even 
committed  to  writing,  to  this  sum  was  added 
another  £200  a  year,  wholly  at  Darrell's  option 
and  discretion.  It  being  clearly  comprehended 
that  these  words  meant  so  long  as  Mr.  Ham- 
mond kept  his  own  secret,  and  so  long,  too,  as 
he  forboi'e  directly,  or  indirectly,  to  molest,  or 
even  to  address  the  person  at  whose  pleasure  it 
was  held.  On  the  whole,  the  conditions  to  Jas- 
per were  sufficiently  favorable :  he  came  into 
an  income  immeasui-ably  beyond  his  right  to  be- 
lieve that  he  should  ever  enjoy  ;  and  sufficient 
— well  managed — for  even  a  fair  share  of  tlie 
elegances  as  well  as  comforts  of  life,  to  a  young 
couple  blessed  in  each  other's  love,  and  remote 
from  the  horrible  taxes  and  emulous  gentilities 
of  this  opulent  England,  where,  out  of  fear  to 
be  thought  too  poor,  nobody  is  ever  too  rich. 

Matilda  wrote  no  more  to  Darrell.  But  some 
months  afterward  he  received  an  extremely 
well-expressed  note  in  French,  the  writer  where- 
of represented  herself  as  a  French  lady,  who  had 
very  lately  seen  Madame  Hammond — was  now 
in  London  but  for  a  few  days,  and  had  some- 
thing to  communicate,  of  such  importance  as  to 
justify  the  liberty  she  took  in  requesting  him  to 
honor  her  with  a  visit.  After  some  little  hesi- 
tation, Darrell  called  on  this  lady.  Though  Ma- 
tilda had  forfeited  his  affection,  he  could  not 
contemplate  her  probable  fate  without  painful 
anxiety.  Perhaps  Jasper  had  ill-used  her — 
perhaps  she  had  need  of  shelter  elsewhere. 
Though  that  shelter  could  not  again  be  under 
a  father's  roof — and  though  Darrell  would  have 
taken  no  step  to  separate  her  from  the  husband 
she  had  chosen,  still,  in  secret,  he  would  have 
felt  comparative  relief  and  ease  had  she  her- 
self sought  to  divide  her  fate  from  one  whose 
l)ath  downward  in  dishonor  his  penetration  in- 
stinctively divined.  With  an  idea  that  some 
communication  might  be  made  to  him,  to  which 
he  might  reply  that  Matilda,  if  compelled  to 
quit  her  husband,  should  never  want  the  home 
and  subsistence  of  a  gentlewoman,  he  repaired 
to  the  house  (a  handsome  house  in  a  quiet 
street,  temporarily  occupied  by  the  French  lady). 
A  tall  chassem-,  in  full  costume,  opened  the  door 
— a  page  ushered  him  into  the  drawing-room. 
He  saw  a  lady — young — and  with  all  tbe  grace 
of  a  Parisicnne  in  her  manner — who,  after  some 
exquisitely-turned  phrases  of  excuse,  showed  him 
(as  a  testimonial  of  the  intimacy  between  her- 
self and  Madame  Hammond)  a  letter  she  had 
received  from  Matilda,  in  a  very  heart-broken, 
filial  stx'ain,  full  of  professions  of  penitence — 
of  a  passionate  desire  for  her  father's  forgive- 
ness— but  far  from  complaining  of  Jasper,  or 
hinting  at  the  idea  of  deserting  a  spouse,  with 
whom,  but  for  the  haunting  remembrance  of  a 
beloved  parent,  her  lot  would  be  blessed  indeed. 
Whatever  of  pathos  was  deficient  in  the  letter, 
the  French  lady  supplied  by  such  ai)pareut  fine 
feeling,  and  by  so  many  touching  little  traits  of 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


195 


Matilda's  remorse,  that  Darrell's  heart  was  soft- 
ened in  spite  of  his  reason.  He  went  away, 
however,  saying  very  little,  and  intending  to 
call  no  more.  But  another  note  came.  The 
French  lady  had  received  a  letter  from  a  mutual 
friend — "Matilda,"  she  feared,  "was  danger- 
ously ill."  This  took  him  again  to  the  house, 
and  the  poor  French  lady  seemed  so  agitated 
by  the  news  she  had  heard — and  yet  so  desirous 
not  to  exaggerate  nor  alarm  him  needlessly, 
that  Darrell  suspected  his  daughter  was  really 
dying,  and  became  nervously  anxious  himself 
for  tlie  next  report.  Thus,  about  three  or  four 
visits  in  all  necessarily  followed  the  first  one. 
Then  Darrell  abruptly  closed  the  intercourse, 
and  could  not  be  induced  to  call  again.  Xot 
that  he  for  an  instant  suspected  that  this  amia- 
ble lady,  who  spoke  so  becomingly,  and  M'hose 
manners  were  so  hi^h-bred,  was  other  than  the 
well-born  Baroness  she  called  herself,  and  looked 
to  be,  but  partly  because,  in  the  last  interview, 
the  charming  Parisienne  had  appeared  a  little  to 
forget  Matilda's  alarming  illness,  in  a,  not  for- 
ward but  still,  coquettish  desire  to  centre  his 
attention  more  upon  herself;  and  the  moment 
she  did  so,  he  took  a  dislike  to  her  which  he 
had  not  before  conceived;  and  partly  because 
his  feelings  having  recovered  the  first  effect 
which  the  vision  of  a  penitent  pining,  dving 
daughter  could  not  fail  to  produce,  his  experi- 
ence of  Matilda's  duplicity  and  falsehood  made 
him  discredit  the  penitence,  the  pining,  and  the 
dying.  The  Baroness  might  not  willfully  be 
deceiving  him — Matilda  might  be  willfully  de- 
ceiving the  Baroness.  To  the  next  note,  there- 
fore, dispatched  to  him  by  the  feeling  and 
elegant  foreigner,  he  replied  but  by  a  dry  ex- 
cuse— a  stately  hint  that  family  matters  could 
never  be  satisfactorily  discussed  except  in  familv 
councils,  and  that  if  her  friend's  grief  or  illness 
were  really  in  any  way  occasioned  by  a  belief 
in  the  pain  her  choice  of  life  might  have  in- 
flicted on  himself,  it  might  comfort  her  to  know 
that  that  pain  had  subsided,  and  that  his  wish 
for  her  health  and  happiness  was  not  less  sin- 
cere, because  henceforth  he  could  neither  watch 
over  the  one  nor  administer  to  the  other.  To 
this  note,  after  a  day  or  two,  the  Baroness  re- 
plied by  a  letter  so  beautifully  worded,  I  doubt 
whether  3Iadame  de  Sevigne  could  have  'WTitten 
in  purer  French,  or  Madame  de  Stael  with  a 
finer  felicity  of  phrase.  Stripped  of  the  graces 
of  diction,  the  substance  was  but  small ;  "Anx- 
iety for  a  friend  so  beloved — so  unhappy — more 
pited  even  than  before,  now  that  the  IBaroness 
had  been  enabled  to  see  how  fondly  a  daughter 
must  idolize  a  father  in  the  man  whom  a  nation 
revered  I — (here  two  lines  devoted  to  compli- 
ment personal) — compelled  by  that  anxietv  to 
quit  even  sooner  than  she  had  first  intended 

the  metropolis  of  that  noble  countrv,"  etc. 

(here  four  lines  devoted  to  compliment  nation- 
al)^and  then  proceeding  through  some  chaiin- 
ing  sentences  about  patriot  altars  and  domestic 
hearths,  the  writer  suddenly  checked  herself — 
"  would  intrude  no  more  on  time  sublimelv 
dedicated  to  the  human  race — and  concluded 
with  the  assurance  of  sentiments  the  most  dis- 
tinguees."  Little  thought  DaiTell  that  this  com- 
plimentary stranger,  whom  he  never  again  be- 
held, would  exercise  an  influence  over  that 
portion  of  his  destiny  which  then  seemed  to 


him  most  secure  from  evil ;  toward  which,  then 

he  looked  for  the  balm  to  every  wound the 

compensation  to  every  loss ! 

Darrell  heard  no  more  of  Matilda,  till,  not 
long  aftenvard,  her  death  was  announced  to 
him.  She  had  died  from  exhaustion  shortly 
after  giving  birth  to  a  female  child.  The  news 
came  upon  him  at  a  moment  when,  from  other 
causes — (the  explanation  of  which,  forming  no 
part  of  his  confidence  to  Alban,  it  will  be  con- 
venient to  reserve)— his  mind  was  in  a  state  of 
gi-eat  afl^iction  and  disorder— when  he  had  al- 
ready buried  himself  in  the  solitudes  of  Fawley 

— ambition  resigned  and  the  world  renounced 

and  the  intelligence  saddened  and  shocked  him 
more  than  it  might  have  done  some  months  be- 
1  fore.     If,  at  that  moment  of  utter  bereavement 
;  Matilda's  child  had  been  brought  to  him — given 
'  up  to  him  to  rear — would  he  "have  rejected  it? 
would  he  have  forgotten  that  it  was  a  felon's 
grandchild?     I  dare  not  say.     But  his  pride 
was  not  put  to  such  a  trial.'    One  day  he  re- 
ceived a  packet  from  Mr.  Gotobed,  inclosing 
the  formal  certificates  of  the  infant's  death" 
which  had  been  presented  to  him  by  Jasper, 
who  had  arrived  in  London  for  that  melancholy 
purpose,  with  which  he  combined  a  pecuniary 
proposition.     By  the  death  of  Matilda  and  her 
only  child,  the  sum  of  £10,000  absolutely  revert- 
ed to  Jasper  in  the  event  of  Darrell's  decease. 
As  the  interest  meanwhile  was  continued  to  Jas- 
per, that  widowed  mourner  suggested  "  that  it 
would  be  a  great  boon  to  himself  and  no  dis- 
advantage to  Dan-ell  if  the  principal  were  made 
over  to  him  at  once.     He  had  been  brought  up 
originally  to  commerce.     He  had  abjured  all 
thoughts  of  resuming  such  vocation  during  his 
wife's  lifetime,  out  of  tliat  consideration  for  her 
family  and  ancient  birth  which  motives  of  deli- 
cacy imposed.     Now  that  the  connection  with 
Mr.  Darrell  was  dissolved,  it  might  be  rather  a 
relief  than  otherwise  to  that  gentleman  to  know 
that  •  a  son-in-law  so  displeasing  to   him  was 
finally  settled,  not  only  in  a  foreign  land,  but 
in  a  social  sphere,  in  which  his  very  existence 
would  soon  be  ignored  by  all  who  could  remind 
Z\Ir.  Darrell  that  his  daughter  had  once  a  hus- 
band.     An  occasion  that   might  never  occur 
again  now  presented  itself.     A  trading  firm  at 
Paris,  opulent,  but  unostentatiously  quiet  in  its 
mercantile  transactions,  would  accept  him  as  a 
partner  could  he  bring  to  it  the  additional  cap- 
ital of  £10,000."     Not  without  dignity  did  Jas- 
per add,  "  that  since  his  connection  had  been 
so  unhappily  distasteful  to  Mr.  Darrell,  and  since 
the  very  payment,  each  quarter,  of  the  interest 
on  the  sum  in  question  must  in  itself  keep  alive 
the  unwelcome  remembrance  of  that  connection, 
he  had  the  less  scruple  in  making  a  proposition 
which  would  enable  the  eminent  personage  who 
so  disdained  his  alliance  to  get  rid  of  him  al- 
together."    Darrell  closed  at  once  with  Jasper's 
proposal,  pleased  to  cut  off"  from  his  life  each 
tie  that  could  henceforth  link  it  to  Jasper's, 
nor  displeased  to  relieve  his  hereditary  acres 
from   every  shilling   of  the   man-iage  portion 
which  was  imposed  on  it  as  a  debt,  and  asso- 
ciated with  memories  of  unmingled  bitterness. 
Accordingly,  Mr.  Gotobed,  taking  care  first  to 
ascertain  that  the  certificates  as  to  the  poor 
child's  death  were  genuine,  accepted  Jasper's 
final  release  of  all  claim  on  Mr.  Darrell's  estate- 


196 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


There  still,  however,  remained  the  £200  a  year 
which  Jasper  had  received  during  Matilda's  life, 
on  the  tacit  condition  of  remaining  Mr.  Ham- 
mond, and  not  personally  addressing  Mr.  Dar- 
rell.  Jasper  inquired  ''if  that  annuity  was  to 
continue?"  Mr.  Gotobed  referred  the  inquiry 
to  Darrell,  observing  that  the  object  for  which 
this  extra  allowance  had  been  made  was  ren- 
dered nugatory  by  the  death  of  Mrs.  Hammond 
and  her  child;  since  Jasper  henceforth  could 
have  neither  power  nor  pretext  to  molest  Mr. 
Darrell,  and  that  it  could  signify  but  little  what 
name  might  in  future  be  borne  by  one  whose 
connection  ■with  the  Darrell  family  was  wholly 
dissolved.  Darrell  impatiently  replied.  "That 
nothing  having  been  said  as  to  the  withdrawal 
of  the  said  allowance  in  case  Jasper  became  a 
widower,  he  i-emained  equally  entitled,  in  point 
of  honor,  to  receive  that  allowance,  or  an  ade- 
quate equivalent." 

This  answer  being  intimated  to  Jasper,  that 
gentleman  observed  •'  tliat  it  was  no  more  than 
he  had  expected  from  Mr.  Darrell's  sense  of 
honor,"  and  apparently  quite  satisfied,  carried 
himself  and  his  £10,000  back  to  Paris.  Not 
long  after,  however,-  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Gotobed 
that  "'^Ir.  Darrell,  having  alluded  to  an  equiva- 
lent for  the  £200  a  year  allowed  to  him,  evi- 
dently implying  that  it  was  as  disagreeable  to 
Mr.  Darrell  to  see  that  sum  entered  quarterly 
in  his  banker's  books,  as  it  had  to  see  there 
the  quarterly  interest  of  the  £10,000,  so  Jasper 
might  be  excused  in  owning  that  he  should 
prefer  an  equivalent.  The  commercial  firm  to 
which  he  was  about  to  attach  himself  required 
a  somewhat  larger  capital  on  his  part  than  he 
had  anticipated,  etc.,  etc.  Without  presuming 
to  dictate  any  definite  sum,  he  would  observe 
that  £1500,  or  even  £1000,  would  be  of  more 
avail  to  his  views  and  objscts  in  life  than  an 
annuity  of  £200  a  year,  which,  being  held  only 
at  will,  was  not  susceptible  of  a  temporary  loan." 
Darrell,  wrapped  in  thoughts  wholly  remote. from 
recollections  of  Jasper,  chafed  at  being  thus  re- 
called to  the  sense  of  that  person's  existence, 
wrote  back  to  the  solicitor  who  transmitted  to 
him  this  message,  "  that  an  annuity  held  on 
his  word  was  not  to  be  calculated  by  Mr.  Ham- 
mond's notions  of  its  value.  That  the  £200  a 
year  should  therefore  be  placed  on  the  same 
footing  as  the  £500  a  year  that  had  been  allow- 
ed on  a  capital  of  £10,000;  that  accordingly  it 
might  be  held  to  represent  a  principal  of  £4000, 
for  which  he  inclosed  a  check,  begging  Mr. 
Gotobed  not  only  to  make  Mr.  Hammond  fully 
understand  that  there  ended  all  possible  ac- 
counts or  communication  between  them,  but 
never  again  to  trouble  him  with  any  matters 
whatsoever  in  reference  to  atfairs  that  were 
thus  finally  concluded."  Jasper,  receiving  the 
£1000,  left  Darrell  and  Gotobed  in  peace  till 
the  following  year.  He  then  addressed  to  Goto- 
bed an  exceedingly  plausible,  business-like  let- 
ter. "  The  firm  he  had  entered,  in  the  silk 
trade,  w.is  in  the  most  flourisliing  state — an 
opportunity  occurred  to  purchase  a  magnificent 
mulberry  plantation  in  Provence,  with  all  re- 
quisite marpianieres,  etc.,  which  would  yield  an 
immense  increase  of  profit.  That  if,  to  insure 
him  to  have  a  share  in  this  lucrative  purchase, 
Mr.  Darrell  could  accommodate  him  for  a  year 
with  a  loan  of  £2000  or  £3000,  he  sanguinely 


calculated  on  attaining  so  high  a  position  in 
the  commercial  world,  as,  though  it  couid  not 
render  the  recollection  of  his  alliance  more 
obtrusive  to  IMr.  DaiTell,  would  render  it  less 
humiliating." 

Mr.  Gotobed,  in  obedience  to  the  peremptory 
instructions  he  had  received  from  his  client, 
did  not  refer  this  letter  to  Darrell,  but  having 
occasion  at  that  time  to  visit  Paris  on  other 
business,  he  resolved  (without  calling  on  Mr. 
Hammond)  to  institute  there  soAe  private  in- 
quiry into  that  rising  trader's  prospects  and 
status.  He  found,  on  arrival  at  Paris,  these 
inquiries  diflicult.  No  one  in  either  the  beau 
moade  or  in  the  haul  commerce  seemed  to  know 
any  thing  about  thiOIr.  Jasper  Hammond.  A 
few  fixshionable  English  roues  remembered  to 
have  seen  once  or  twice  during  Matilda's  life, 
and  shortly  after  her  decease,  a  very  fine-look- 
ing man  shooting  meteoric  across  some  equivo- 
cal salons,  or  lounging  in  the  Champs  J-Jli/stes, 
or  dining  at  the  Cct/e  de  Paris  ;  but  of  late  that 
meteor  had  vanished.  Mr.  Gotobed,  then  cau- 
tiously employing  a  commissioner  to  gain  some 
information  of  ilr.  Hammond's  firm  at  the  pri- 
vate residence  from  which  Jasper  addressed  his 
letter,  ascertained  that  in  that  private  residence 
Jasper  did  not  reside.  He  paid  the  porter  to 
receive  occasional  letters,  for  which  he  called 
or  sent ;  and  the  porter,  who  was  evidently  a 
faithful  and  discreet  functionary,  declared  his 
belief  that  ilonsieur  Hammond  lodged  in  the 
house  in  which  he  transacted  business,  though, 
where  was  the  house,  or  what  was  the  business, 
the  porter  observed,  with  well-bred  implied  re- 
buke, "  Monsieur  Hammond  was  too  reserved 
to  communicate,  he  himself  too  incurious  to 
inquire."  At  length  Mr.  Gotobed's  business, 
which  was,  in  fact,  a  commission  from  a  dis- 
tressed father  to  extricate  an  imprudent  son, 
a  mere  boy,  from  some  unhappy  associations, 
having  brought  him  into  the  necessity  of  seeing 
persons  who  belonged  neither  to  the  beau  monde 
nor  to  the  haul  commerce,  he  gleaned  from  them 
the  information  he  desired.  'Sir.  Hammond 
lived  in  the  very  heart  of  a  certain  circle  in 
Paris,  which  but  few  Englishmen  ever  pene- 
trate. In  that  circle  Mr.  Hammond  had,  on 
receiving  his  late  wife's  dowry,  become  the 
partner  in  a  private  gambling  hell ;  in  that  hell 
had  been  ingulfed  all  the  moneys  he  had  re- 
ceived— a  hell  that  ought  to  have  prospered 
with  him,  if  he  could  have  economized  his  vil- 
lainous gains.  His  senior  partner  in  that  firm 
retired  into  the  country  with  a  fine  fortune — 
no  doubt  the  very  owner  of  those  mulbeny 
plantations  which  were  now  on  sale  I  But  Jas- 
per scattered  Napoleons  faster  than  any  croupier 
could  rake  them  away.  And  Jasper's  natural 
talent  for  converting  solid  gold  into  thin  air 
had  been  assisted  by  a  lady,  who,  in  the  course 
of  her  amiable  life,  had  assisted  many  richer 
men  than  Jasper  to  lodgings  in  St.  Pelagic,  or 
cells  in  the  Maison  des  Fous.  With  that  lady 
he  had  become  acquainted  during  the  lifetime 
of  his  wife,  and  it  was  sujiposed  that  Matilda's 
discovery  of  this  liaison  had  contributed  perhaps 
to  the  illness  which  closed  in  her  decease ;  the 
name  of  that  lady  was  Gabrielle  Desmarets. 
She  might  still  be  seen  daily  at  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  nightly  at  opera-house  or  theatre  ; 
she  had  apartments  in  the  Chaussec  d'Antin  far 


WHAT  ^nLL  HE  DO  AVITII  IT  ? 


197 


from  inaccessible  to  Mr.  Gotobed,  if  he  coveted 
the  honor  of  her  acquaintance.  But  Jasper  was 
less  before  an  admiring  world.  He  was  sup- 
posed now  to  be  connected  with  another  gam- 
bling-house of  lower  grade  than  the  last,  in 
which  he  had  contrived  to  break  his  own  bank, 
and  plunder  his  own  till.  It  was  supposed  also 
that  he  remained  good  friends  with  Mademoi- 
selle Desmarets :  but  if  he  \-isited  her  at  her 
house,  he  was  never  to  be  seen  there.  In  fact, 
his  temper  was  so  uncertain,  his  courage  so 
dauntless,  his  strength  so  prodigious,  that  gen- 
tlemen who  did  not  wish  to  be  thrown  out  of  a 
window,  or  hurled  down  a  stair-case,  shunned 
any  salon  or  boudoir  in  which  they  had  a  chance 
to  encounter  him.  Mademoiselle  Desmarets 
had  thus  been  condemned  to  the  painful  choice 
between  his  society  and  that  of  nobody  else,  or 
that  of  any  body  elsc/with  the  rigid  privation  of 
his.  Not  being  a  <mrtle-dove,  she  had  chosen 
the  latter  alternative.  It  was  believed,  how- 
ever, that  if  ever  Gabrielle  Desmarets  had  known 
the  weakness  of  a  kind  sentiment,  it  was  for  this 
turbulent  lady-killer  :  and  that,  with  a  liberality 
she  had  never  exhibited  in  any  other  instance, 
when  she  could  no  longer  help  him  to  squander, 
she  would  still,  at  a  pinch,  help  him  to  live ; 
though,  of  course,  in  such  a  reverse  of  the  nor- 
mal laws  of  her  being,  ilademoiselle  Desmarets 
set  those  bounds  on  her  own  generosity  which 
she  would  not  have  imposed  upon  his,  and  had 
said  with  a  sigh,  "I  could  forgive  him  if  he 
beat  me  and  beggared  my  friends  :  but  to  beat 
my  frien(ls  and  to  beggar  me — that  is  not  the 
kind  of  love  which  makes  the  world  go  round  I" 

Scandalized  to  the  last  nerve  of  bis  respect- 
able system  by  the  information  thus  gleaned, 
Mr.  Gotobed  returned  to  London.  Slore  letters 
from  Jasper — becoming  urgent,  and  at  last  even 
insolent — Mr.  Gotobed,  worried  into  a  reply, 
wrote  back  shortly ''that  he  could  not  even 
communicate  such  applications  to  Mr.  Darrell, 
and  that  he  must  peremptorily  decline  all  far- 
ther intercourse,  epistolary  or  personal,  with 
^Ir.  Hammond." 

Darrell,  on  returning  from  one  of  the  occa- 
sional rambles  on  the  Continent,  "remote,  un- 
friended, melancholy,"  by  which  he  broke  the 
monotony  of  his  Fawley  life,  found  a  letter  from 
Jasper,  not  fawning,  but  abrupt,  addressed  to 
himself,  complaining  of  ISIr.  Gotobed's  improper 
tone,  requesting  pecuniary  assistance,  and  inti- 
mating that  he  could  in  return  communicate  to 
Mr.  Darrell  an  intelligence  that  would  give  him 
more  joy  than  all  his  wealth  could  purchase. 
Darrell  inclosed  that  note  to  Mr.  Gotobed  ;  ]SIr. 
Gotobed  came  down  to  Fawley  to  make  those 
revelations  of  Jasper's  mode  of  life  which  were 
too  delicate,  or  too  much  the  reverse,  to  com- 
mit to  paper.  Great  as  Darrell's  disgust  at  the 
memory  of  Jasper  had  hitherto  been,  it  may 
well  be  conceived  how  much  more  bitter  became 
that  memory  now.  No  answer  was,  of  course, 
vouchsafed  to  Jasper,  who,  after  another  ex- 
tremely forcible  apf)eal  for  money,  and  equally 
enigmatical  boast  of  the  pleasurable  information 
it  was  in  his  power  to  bestow,  relapsed  into 
sullen  silence. 

One  day,  somewhat  more  than  five  years  after 
Slatilda's  death,  Darrell,  coming  in  from  his 
musing  walks,  found  a  stranger  waiting  for  him. 
This  stranger  was  William   Losely,   returned 


from  penal  exile ;  and  while  Darrell,  on  hear- 
ing this  announcement,  stood  mute  with  haughty 
wonder  that  such  a  visitor  could  cross  the  thresh- 
old of  his  father's  house,  the  convict  began  what 
seemed  to  Darrell  a  story  equally  audacious  and 
incomprehensible — the  infant  Matilda  had  borne 
to  Jasper,  and  the  certificates  of  whose  death 
had  been  so  ceremoniously  produced  and  so 
prudently  attested,  lived  still!  Sent  out  to 
nurse  as  soon  as  born,  the  nurse  had  in  her 
charge  another  babe,  and  this  last  was  the  child 
who  had  died  and  been  buried  as  Matilda  Ham- 
mond's. The  elder  Losely  went  on  to  stammer 
out  a  hope  that  his  son  was  not  at  the  time 
aware  of  the  fraudulent  exchange,  but  had  been 
deceived  by  the  nurse — that  it  had  not  been  a 
premeditated  imposture  of  his  own  to  obtain  his 
wife's  fortune. 

When  Darrell  came  to  this  part  of  his  story, 
Alban  Morley's  face  grew  more  seriously  inter- 
ested. "Stop I"  he  said;  "William  Losely  as- 
sured you  of  his  own  conviction  that  this  strange 
tale  was  true.  AThat  proofs  did  he  volunteer?" 
"Proofs  !  Death,  man,  do  you  think  that  at 
such  moments  I  was  but  a  bloodless  lawyer,  to 
question  and  cross-examine  ?  I  could  but  bid 
the  impostor  leave  the  house  which  his  feet  pol- 
luted." 

Alban  heaved  a  sigh,  and  murmured,  too  low 
for  Darrell  to  overhear,  "Poor  Willy!"  then 
aloud,  "But,  my  dear  friend,  bear  with  me  one 
moment.     Suppose  that,  by  the  arts  of  this  dia- 
bolical Jasper,  the  exchange  really  had  been 
'  effected,  and  a  child  to  your  ancient  line  lived 
still,  would  it  not  be  a  solace,  a  comfort — " 
I      "  Comfort !"  cried  Darrell,  "  comfort  in  the 
perpetuation  of  infamy !     The  line  I  promised 
my  father  to  restore  to  its  rank  in  the  land,  to 
be  renewed  in  the  grandchild  of  a  felon ! — in 
the  child  of  the  yet  viler  sharper  of  a  hell  I — 
You,  gentleman  and  soldier,  call  that  thought 
— '  comfort  ?'     Oh,  Alban ! — out  on  you  I     Fie  ! 
fie!     No! — leave  such  a  thought  to  the  lips  of 
a  William  Losely !     He  indeed,  clasping  his 
hands,  faltered  forth  some  such  word  ;  he  seemed 
to  count  on  my  forlorn  privation  of  kith  and 
'  kindred — no  heir  to  my  wealth — no  representa- 
tive of  my  race — would  I  deprive  myself  of — ay 
— your  very  words — of  a  solace — a   comfort ! 
He  asked  me,  at  least,  to  inquire." 
"  And  you  answered  ?" 
I      "Answered  so  as  to  quell  and  crush  in  the 
I  bud  all  hopes  in  the  success  of  so  flagrant  a 
falsehood — answered,    '  "WTiy  inquire  ?     Know 
'  that,  even  if  your  tale  were  true,  I  have  no  heir, 
'  no  representative,  no  descendant  in  the  child 
of  Jasper — the  grandchild  of  William — Losely. 
I  can  at  least  leave  my  wealth  to  the  son  of 
Charles  Haughton.     True,  Charles  Haughton 
was   a   spendthrift — a   gamester ;    but  he  was 
;  neither  a  professional  cheat  nor  a  convicted 
1  felon.' " 
I      "Yousaidthat — oh,  Darrell!" 

The  Colonel  checked  himself   But  for  Charles 

Haughton,  the  spendthrift  and  gamester,  would 

\  William  Losely  have  been  the  convicted  felon? 

He  checked  that  thought,   and   hurried  on — 

j  "And  how  did  William" Losely  reply?" 

"  He  made  no  reply — he  skulked  away  with- 
out a  word." 
I      Darrell  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  inteniew 
'  which  Jasper  had  forced  on  him  at  Fawley  dtir- 


198 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


ing  Lionel's  visit  there — on  Jasper's  part,  an 
attempt  to  tell  the  same  tale  as  William  had 
told — on  Darrell's  part,  the  same  scornful  re- 
fusal to  hear  it  out.  "And,"  added  Darrell, 
"  the  man,  finding  it  thus  impossible  to  dupe 
mv  reason,  had  the  inconceivable  meanness  to 
apply  to  me  for  alms.  I  could  not  better  show 
the  "disdain  in  which  I  held  himself  and  his 
story  than  in  recognizing  his  plea  as  a  mendi- 
cant. I  threw  my  purse  at  his  feet,  and  so  left 
him. 

"But,"  continued  Darrell,  his  brow  growing 
darker  and  darker,  "  but  wild  and  monstrous  as 
the  story  was,  still  the  idea  that  it  might  be  true 
— a  supposition  which  derived  its  sole  strength 
from  the  character  of  Jasper  Losely — from  the 
interest  he  had  in  the  supposed  death  of  a  child 
that  alone  stood  between  himself  and  the  money 
he  longed  to  grasp — an  interest  which  ceased 
when  the  money  itself  was  gone,  or  rather 
changed  into  the  counter-interest  of  proving  a 
life  that,  he  thought,  would  re-establish  a  hold 
on  me — still.  I  say,  an  idea  that  the  story  inirjlit 
be  true,  would  force  itself  on  my  fears,  and  if 
so,  though  my  resolution  never  to  acknowledge 
the  child  of  Jasper  Losely  as  a  representative, 
or  even  as  a  daughter,  of  my  house,  would  of 
course  be  immovable — yet  it  would  become  my 
duty  to  see  that  her  infancy  was  sheltered,  her 
childhood  reared,  her  youth  guarded,  her  exist- 
ence amply  provided  for." 

"Right— your  plain  duty,"  said  Alban,  blunt- 
Iv.  "Intricate  sometimes  are  the  obligations 
imposed  on  us  as  gentlemen  ;  '  noblesse  oblige''  is 
a  motto  which  involves  puzzles  for  a  casuist ; 
but  our  duties  as  men  are  plain — the  idea  very 
properly  haunted  you — and — " 

"And  I  hastened  to  exorcise  the  spectre.  I 
left  England — I  went  to  the  French  town  in 
which  poor  Matilda  died — I  could  not,  of  course, 
make  formal  or  avowed  inquiries  of  a  nature  to 
raise  into  importance  the  very  conspiracy  (if 
conspiracy  there  were)  which  threatened  me. 
But  I  saw  the  physician  who  had  attended  both 
my  daughter  and  her  child — I  saw  those  who 
had  seen  them  both  when  living — seen  them 
both  when  dead.  The  doubt  on  my  mind  was 
dispelled — not  a  pretext  left  for  my  own  self- 
torment.  The  only  person  needful  in  evidence 
whom  I  failed  to  see  was  the  nurse  to  whom  the 
infant  had  been  sent.  She  lived  in  a  village 
some  miles  from  the  town — I  called  at  her  house 
— she  was  out.  I  left  word  I  should  call  the 
next  day — I  did  so — she  had  absconded.  I 
might,  doubtless,  have  traced  her,  but  to  what 
end,  if  she  were  merely  Jasper's  minion  and 
tool?  Did  not  her  very  flight  prove  her  guilt 
and  her  terror?  Indirectly  I  inquired  into  her 
antecedents  and  character.  The  inquiry  opened 
a  field  of  conjecture,  from  which  I  hastened  to 
turn  my  eyes.  This  woman  liad  a  sister  who 
had  been  in  the  service  of  Gabrielle  Desmarets ; 
and  Gabrielle  Desmarets  had  been  in  the  neigh- 
boxhood  during  my  poor  daughter's  Hfetime,  and 
just  after  my  daughter's  death.  And  the  nurse 
had  had  two  infants  under  her  charge ;  the 
nurse  had  removed  with  one  of  them  to  Paris 
— and  Gabrielle  Desmarets  lived  in  Paris — and, 
oh,  Alban,  if  there  be  really  in  flesh  and  life  a 
child  by  Jasper  Losely  to  be  forced  upon  my 
purse  or  my  pity — is  it  his  child,  not  by  the  ill- 
fated  Matilda,  but  by  the  vile  woman  for  whom 


Matilda,  even  in  the  first  year  of  wedlock,  was 
deserted?  Conceive  how  credulity  itself  would 
shrink  appalled  from  the  horrible  snare ! — I  to 
acknowledge,  adopt,  proclaim  as  the  last  of  the 
Darrells,  the  adulterous  ofl:spring  of  a  Jasper 
Losely  and  a  Gabrielle  Desmarets ! — or,  when  I 
am  in  mv  grave,  some  claim  advanced  upon  the 
sum  settled  by  my  marriage  articles  on  ilatilda's 
issue,  and  which,  if  a  child  survived,  could  not 
have  been  legally  transferred  to  its  father — a 
claim  with  witnesses  suborned — a  claim  that 
might  be  fraudulently  established — a  claim  that 
would  leave  the  representative — not  indeed  of 
my  lands  and  wealth,  but,  more  precious  far,  of 
mv  lineage  and  blood — in — in  the  person  of — 
of—"  / 

DaiTeU  paused,  almost  stifling,  and  became 
so  pale  that  Alban  started  from  his  seat  in 
alarm. 

"It  is  nothing,"  resumed  DaiTcU,  faintly; 
"  and,  ill  or  well,  I  mivst  finish  this  subject  now, 
so  that  we  need  not  reopen  it. 

"  I  remained  abroad,  as  you  know,  for  some 
years.  During  that  time  two  or  three  letters 
from  Jasper  Losely  were  forwarded  to  me ;  the 
latest  in  date  more  insolent  than  all  preceding 
ones.  It  contained  demands  as  if  they  were 
rights,  and  insinuated  threats  of  public  expo- 
sure, reflecting  on  myself  and  my  pride — '  He 
was  my  son-in-law  after  all,  and  if  he  came 
to  disgrace  the  world  should  know  the  tie.' 
Enough.  This  is  all  I  knew  until  the  man  who 
now,  it  seems,  thrusts  himself  forward  as  Jasper 
Losely's  friend  or  agent,  spoke  to  me  the  other 
nightat  Mrs.  Haughtou's..  That  man  you  have 
seen,  and  you  say  that  he — " 

"  Represents  Jasper's  poverty  as  extreme ; 
his  temper  unscrupulous  and  desperate  ;  that  he 
is  capable  of  any  amount  of  scandal  or  violence. 
It  seems  that  though  at  Paris  he  has  (Poole  be- 
lieves) still  preserved  the  name  of  Hammond, 
i  yet  that  in  England  he  has  resumed  that  of 
Losely ;  seems,  by  Poole's  date  of  the  time  on 
which  he,  Poole,  made  Jasper's  acquaintance, 
to  have  done  so  after  his  baffled  attempt  on  you 
at  Fawley — whether  in  so  doing  he  intimated 
the  commencement  of  hostilities,  or  whether,  as 
is  more  likely,  the  sharper  finds  it  convenient  to 
have  oiie  name  in  one  countiy,  and  one  in  an- 
other, 'tis  useless  to  inquire ;  enough  that  the 
identity  between  the  Hammond  who  married 
poor  Matilda  and  the  Jasper  Losely  whose  fa- 
ther was  transported,  that  unscrupulous  rogue 
has  no  longer  any  care  to  conceal.  It  is  true 
that  the  revelation  of  this  identity  would  now 
be  of  slight  moment  to  a  man  of  the  world — as 
thick-skinned  as  myself,  for  instance ;  but  to 
you  it  would  be  disagreeable — there  is  no  de- 
nying that — and  therefore,  in  short,  when  ilr. 
Poole  advises  a  compromise,  by  which  Jasper 
could  be  secured  from  want  and  yourself  from 
annoyance,  I  am  of  the  same  opinion  as  ilr. 
Poole  is." 
I       "  You  are  ?" 

"  Certainly.  5Iy  dear  Darrell,  if  in  your  se- 
cret heart  there  was  something  so  galling  in  the 
thought  that  the  man  who  had  married  your 
daughter,  though  without  your  consent,  was  not 
merely  the  commonplace  adventurer  whom  the 
world'supposed,  but  the  son  of  that  poor  dear — 
I  mean,  that  rascal  who  was  transported.  Jas- 
per too,  himself  a  cheat  and  a  shai-per — if  this 


"WHAT  WLLL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


199 


galled  vou  so  that  you  have  concealed  the  true 
facts  from  myself,  your  oldest  friend,  till  this 
day — if  it  has  cost  you  even  now  so  sharp  a 
pang  to  divulge  the  true  name  of  that  Mr.  Ham- 
mond, whom  our  society  never  saw,  whom  even 
gossip  has  forgotten  in  connection  with  yourself 
—  how  intolerable  would  be  your  suffering  to 
have  this  man  watching  for  you  in  the  streets, 
some  wretched  girl  in  his  hand,  and  crying  out, 
'A  penny  for  your  son-in-law  and  your  grand- 
child!' Pardon  me  —  I  must  be  blunt.  You 
can  give  him  to  the  police — send  him  to  the 
tread-mill.  Does  that  mend  the  matter  ?  Or, 
worse  still,  suppose  the  man  commits  some 
crime  that  fills  all  the  newspapers  with  his  life 
and  adventures,  including,  of  course,  his  runaway 
marriage  with  the  famous  Guy  Darrell's  heiress 
— no  one  would  blame  you,  no  one  respect  you 
less ;  but  do  not  tell  me  that  you  would  not  be 
glad  to  save  your  daughter's  name  from  being 
coupled  \yiih  such  a  miscreant's,  at  the  price  of 
half  your  fortune." 

"Alban,"  said  Darrell,  gloomily,  "you  can 
say  nothing  on  this  score  that  has  not  been  con- 
sidered by  myself.  But  the  man  has  so  placed 
the  matter  that  honor  itself  forbids  me  to  bar- 
gain with  him  for  the  price  of  my  name.  So 
long  as  he  threatens,  I  can  not  buy  off  a  threat 
— so  long  as  he  persists  in  a  story  by  which  he 
would  establish  a  claim  on  me  on  behalf  of  a 
child  whom  I  have  ever}'  motive,  as  well  as  ev- 
ery reason,  to  disown  as  inheriting  my  blood  — 
whatever  I  bestowed  on  himself  v.ould  seem  like 
hush-money  to  suppress  that  claim." 

"  Of  course — I  understand,  and  entirely  agree 
with  you.  But  if  the  man  retract  all  threats, 
confess  his  imposture  in  respect  to  this  pretend- 
ed offspring,  and  consent  to  retire  for  life  to  a 
distant  colony,  upon  an  annuity  that  may  suffice 
for  his  wants,  but  leave  no  surplus  beyond,  to 
render  more  glaring  his  vices,  or  more  eflective 
his  powers  of  evil — if  this  could  be  aiTanged  be- 
tween Mr.  Poole  and  myself,  I  think  that  your 
peace  might  be  permanently  secured  without  the 
slightest  sacrifice  of  honor.  "Will  you  leave  the 
matter  in  my  hands,  on  this  assurance  —  that  I 
will  not  give  this  person  a  farthing  except  on 
the  conditions  I  have  premised  ?" 

"  On  these  conditions,  yes,  and  most  grate- 
fully," said  Darrell.  '•  Do'  what  you  will.  But 
one  favor  more ;  never  again  speak  to  me  (un- 
less absolutely  compelled)  in  reference  to  this 
dark  portion  of  my  inner  life." 

Alban  pressed  his  friend's  hand,  and  both 
were  silent  for  some  moments.  Then  said  the 
Colonel,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  '•  Dar- 
rell, more  than  ever  now  do  I  see  that  the  new 
house  at  Fawley,  so  long  suspended,  must  be 
finished.  Marry  again  you  must  I  You  can 
never  banish  old  remembrances  unless  you  can 
supplant  them  by  fresh  hopes." 

"  I  feel  it — I  know  it  I"  cried  Darrell,  passion- 
ately. "  And  oh  I  if  one  remembrance  could  be 
wrenched  away  I     But  it  shall — it  shall  I" 

"  Ah  1'  thought  Alban,  "  the  remembrance  of 
his  former  conjugal  life  I — a  remembrance  which 
might  well  make  the  youngest  and  the  boldest 
Benedict  shrink  from  the  hazard  of  a  similar 
experiment." 

In  proportion  to  the  delicacy,  the  earnest- 
ness, the  depth  of  a  man's  nature,  will  there  be 
a  something  in  his  character  which  no  male 


friend  can  conceive,  and  a  something  in  the  se- 
crets of  his  life  which  no  male  friend  can  ever 
conjecture. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


j  Our  old  friend  the  Pocket  Cannibal  evinces  unexpected 
j  patriotism  and  philosophical  moderation,  contented 
I  -with  a  steak  off  his  own  succulent  friend  in  the  airs  of 
1      his  own  native  sky. 

CoLoxEL  MoELET  had  a  second  interview 
with  Mr.  Poole.     It  needed  not  Alban's  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  to  discover  that  Poole  was  no 
partial  friend  to  Jasper  Losely ;  that,  for  some 
reason   or    other,  Poole  was'  no   less  anxious 
than  the  Colonel  to  get  that  formidable  cli- 
ent, whose  cause  he  so  warmly  advocated,  pen- 
sioned and  packed  off  into  the  region  most  re- 
mote from  Great  Britain,  in  which  a  spirit  hith- 
erto so  restless  might  consent  to  settle.     And 
although  Mr.  Poole  had  evidently  taken  offense 
;  at  ]^Ir.  Darrell's  discourteous  rebuff'  of  his  ami- 
able intentions,  yet  no  grudge  against  Darrell 
furnished   a  motive  for  conduct  equal  to  his 
Christian  desire  that  Darrell's  peace  should  be 
purchased  by  Losely's  perpetual  exile.    Accord- 
ingly, Colonel  Morley  took  leave,  with  a  well- 
placed  confidence  in  Poole's  determination  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  induce  Jasper  to  listen  to 
reason.    The  Colonel  had  hoped  to  learn  some- 
thing from  Poole  of  the  elder  Losely "s  present 
1  residence  and  resources.     Poole,  as  we  know, 
j  could  give  him  there  no  information.    The  Col- 
onel also  failed  to  ascertain  any  particulars  rel- 
ative to  that  female  pretender  on  whose  behalf 
I  Jasper  founded  his  principal  claim  to  Darrell's 
!  aid.     And  so  great  was  Poole's  emban-assment 
'  in  reply  to  all  questions  on  that  score  —  Where 
j  was  the  young  person  ?     With  whom  had  she 
]  lived  ?    What  was  she  like  ?    Could  the  Colonel 
j  see  her,  and  hear  her  own  tale  ?  —  that  Alban 
I  entertained  a  strong  suspicion  that  no  such  girl 
[  was  in  existence ;  that  she  was  a  pure  fiction 
and  myth  ;  or  that,  if  Jasper  were  compelled  to 
produce  some  petticoated  fair,  she  would  be  an 
artful  baggage  hired  for  the  occasion. 

Poole  waited  Jaspers  next  visit  with  impa- 
tience and  sanguine  delight.  He  had  not  a 
doubt  that  the  ruffian  would  cheerfully  consent 
to  allow  that,  on  farther  inquiry,  he  found  he 
had  been  deceived  in  Lis  belief  of  Sophy's  par- 
entage, and  that  there  was  nothing  in  England 
so  pecidiarly  sacred  to  his  heart  but  what  he 
might  consent  to  breathe  the  freer  air  of  Colum- 
bian skies,  or  even  to  share  the  shepherd's  harm- 
less life  amidst  the  pastures  of  auriferous  Aus- 
tralia !  But,  to  Poole's  ineffable  consternation, 
Jasper  declared  sullenly  that  he  would  not  con- 
sent to  expatriate  himself  merely  for  the  sake 
of  living. 

"  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was,"  said  the  bravo ; 
"I  don't  speak  of  years,  but  feeling.  I  have 
not  the  same  energy-;  once  I  had  high  spirits — 
they  are  broken ;  once  I  had  hope — I  have  none : 
I  ain  not  up  to  exertion ;  I  have  got  into  lazy 
habits.  To  go  into  new  scenes,  fonn  new  plans, 
live  in  a  horrid  raw  new  world,  every  body  round 
me  bustling  and  pushing — No!  that  may  suit 
your  thin  dapper  light  Ilop-o'-my-th  umbs !  Look 
at  me !  See  how  I  have  increased  in  weight  the 
last  five  years — all  sohd  bone  and  muscle.  I 
defy  any  four  draymen  to  move  me  an  inch  if  I 


200 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


am  not  in  the  mind  to  it ;  and  to  be  blown  off  to 
the  antipodes  as  if  I  were  the  down  of  a  pestilent 
thistle,  I  am  not  in  the  mind  for  that,  Dolly 
Poole !" 

"  Hum  I"  said  Poole,  trying  to  smile.  "  This 
is  funny  talk.  You  always  were  a  funny  fellow. 
But  I  am  quite  sure,  from  Colonel  ilorley's  de- 
cided manner,  that  you  can  get  nothing  from 
Darrell  if  you  choose  to  remain  in  England." 

"Well,  when  I  have  nothing  else  left,  I  may 
go  to  Darrell  myself,  and  have  that  matter  out 
with  him.  At  present  I  am  not  up  to  it.  Dolly, 
don't  bore !"  And  the  bravo,  opening  a  jaw 
strong  enough  for  any  carnivorous  animal, 
yawned — yawned  much  as  a  bored  tiger  does  in 
the  face  of  a  philosophical  student  of  savage 
manners  in  the  Zoological  Gardens. 

"Bore I" said  Poole,  astounded,  and  recoiling 
from  that  expanded  jaw.  "But  I  should  have 
thought  no  subject  could  bore  you  less  than  the 
consideration  of  how  you  are  to  live?" 

"  Why,  Dolly,  I  have  learned  to  be  easily  con- 
tented, and  you  see  at  present  I  live  upon  you." 

"Yes,"  groaned  Poole,  "but  that  can't  go  on 
forever;  and,  besides,  you  promised  that  you 
would  leave  me  in  peace  as  soon  as  I  had  got 
Darrell  to  provide  for  you." 

"So  I  will.  Zounds,  Sir,  do  you  doubt  my 
word  ?  So  I  will.  But  I  don't  call  exile  '  a 
provision' — Basta .'  I  understand  from  you  that 
Colonel  Morley  offers  to  restore  the  niggardly 
£200  a  year  Darrell  formerly  allowed  to  me,  to 
be  paid  monthly  or  weekly,  through  some  agent 
in  Van  Diemen's  Land,  or  some  such  uncom- 
fortable half-way  house  to  Eternity,  that  was 
not  even  in  the  Atlas  when  I  studied  geography 
at  school.  But  £200  a  year  is  exactly  my  in- 
come in  England,  paid  weekly  too,  by  your 
agreeable  self,  with  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
talk  over  old  times.  Therefore  that  proposal  is 
out  of  the  question.  Tell  Colonel  Morley,  with 
my  compliments,  that  if  he  will  double  the  sum, 
and  leave  me  to  spend  it  where  I  please,  I  scorn 
haggling,  and  say  'done.'  And  as  to  the  girl, 
since  I  can  not  tind  her  (which,  on  penalty  of 
being  thrashed  to  a  mummy,  you  will  take  care 
not  to  let  out),  I  would  agree  to  leave  Mr.  Dar- 
rell free  to  disovrn  her.  But  are  you  such  a 
dolt  as  not  to  see  that  I  put  the  ace  of  trumps 
on  my  adversary's  pitiful  deuce,  if  I  depose  that 
my  own  child  is  not  my  own  child,  when  all  I 
get  for  it  is  what  I  equally  get  out  of  you,  with 
my  ace  of  trumps  still  in  ray  hands?  Basta! — 
I  say  again  Basta  !  It  is  evidently  an  object  to 
Darrell  to  get  rid  of  all  fear  that  Sophy  should 
ever  pounce  upon  him  tooth  and  claw :  if  he  be 
so  convinced  that  she  is  not  his  daughter's  child, 
why  make  a  point  of  my  saying  that  I  told  him 
a  fib  when  I  said  she  was?  Evidently,  too,  he 
is  afraid  of  my  power  to  harass  and  annoy  him ; 
or  why  make  it  a  point  that  I  shall  only  nibble 
his  cheese  in  a  trap  at  the  world's  end,  stared 
at  by  bushmen,  and  wombats,  and  rattlesnakes, 
and  alligators,  and  other  American  citizens  or 
British  settlers?  £200  a  year,  and  my  own 
wife's  father  a  millionaire!  The  offer  is  an  in- 
sult. Ponder  this ;  put  on  the  screw ;  make 
them  come  to  terms  which  I  can  do  them  the 
honor  to  accept ;  meanwhile,  I  will  trouble  you 
for  my  four  sovereigns." 

Poole  had  the  chagrin  to  report  to  the  Col- 
onel Jasper's  I'efusal  of  the  terms  proposed,  and 


to  state  the  counter-proposition  he  was  com- 
missioned to  make.  Alban  was  at  first  sur- 
prised, not  conjecturing  the  means  of  supply,  in 
his  native  land,  which  Jasper  had  secured  in 
the  coffers  of  Poole  himself.  On  sounding  the 
unhappy  negotiator  as  to  Jasper's  reasons,  he 
surmised,  however,  one  part  of  the  truth — viz., 
that  Jasper  built  hopes  of  better  terms  precisely 
on  the  fact  that  terms  had  been  ofi'ei-ed  to  him 
at  all ;  and  this  induced  Alban  almost  to  regret 
that  he  had  made  any  such  overtures,  and  to 
believe  that  Darrell's  repugnance  to  open  the 
door  of  conciliation  a  single  inch  to  so  sturdy  a 
mendicant,  was  more  worldly-wise  than  Alban 
had  originally  supposed.  Yet  ]jartly,  even  for 
Darrell's  own  securit/  and  peace,  from  that  per- 
suasion of  his  own  powers  of  management  which 
a  consummate  man  of  the  world  is  apt  to  enter- 
tain, and  partly  from  a  strong  curiosity  to  see 
the  audacious  son  of  that  poor  dear  rascal  Willy, 
and  examine  himself  into  the  facts  he  asserted, 
and  the  objects  he  aimed  at,  Alban  bade  Poole 
inform  Jasper  that  Colonel  iNIorley  would  be 
quite  willing  to  convince  him,  in  a  personal  in- 
terview, of  the  impossibility  of  acceding  to  the 
propositions  Jasper  had  made ;  and  that  he 
should  be  still  more  willing  to  see  the  young 
person  whom  Jasper  asserted  to  be  the  child  of 
his  marriage. 

Jasper,  after  a  moment's  moody  deliberation, 
declined  to  meet  Colonel  INIorley — partly,  in- 
deed, from  the  sensitive  vanity  viiiich  once  had 
given  him  delight,  and  now  only  pave  him  pain. 
Meet  thus — altered,  fallen,  imbruted — the  fine 
gentleman  whose  calm  eye  had  quelled  him  in 
the  widow's  drawing-room  in  his  day  of  com- 
parative splendor — that  in  itself  was  distasteful 
to  the  degenerated  bravo.  But  he  felt  as  if  he 
should  be  at  more  disadvantage  in  point  of  ar- 
gument with  a  cool  and  wary  representative  of 
Darrell's  interests  than  he  should  be  even  with 
Darrell  himself.  And  unable  to  produce  the 
child  whom  he  ascribed  the  right  to  obtrude,  he 
should  be  but  exposed  to  a  fire  of  cross-questions 
without  a  shot  in  his  own  locker.  Accordingly, 
he  declined,  point-blank,  to  see  Colonel  jNIor- 
ley ;  and  declared  that  the  terms  he  himself  had 
proposed  were  the  lowest  he  would  accept.  "Tell 
Colonel  JlorleV,  however,  that  if  negotiations 
fail,  /  shall  not  fail,  sooner  or  later,  to  argue 
my  view  of  the  points  in  dispute  with  my  kind 
father-in-law,  and  in  person." 

"Yes,  hang  it!"  cried  Poole,  exasperated; 
"go  and  see  Darrell  yourself.  He  is  easily 
found." 

"  Ay,"  answered  Jasper,  with  the  hardest  look 
of  his  downcast  sidelong  eye — "  ay  ;  some  day 
or  other  it  may  come  to  that.  I  would  rather 
not,  if  possiljle.  I  might  not  keep  my  temper. 
It  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  money  between  us, 
if  we  two  meet.  There  are  affronts  to  efiace. 
Banished  his  house  like  a  mangy  dog — treated 
by  a  jackanapes  lawyer  like  the  dirt  in  the  ken- 
nel I  The  Loselys,  I  suspect,  would  have  looked 
down  on  the  Darrells  fifty  years  ago ;  and  what 
if  my  father  was  born  out  of  wedlock,  is  the 
blood  not  the  same?  Does  the  breed  dwindle 
down  for  want  of  a  gold  ring  and  priest  ?  Look 
at  me.  No ;  not  what  I  now  am  ;  not  even  as 
you  saw  me  five  years  ago;  but  as  I  leaped  into 
youth !  Was  I  bom  to  cast  sums  and  nib  pens 
as  a  City  clerk?     Aha,  my  poor  father,  you 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


201 


were  wrong  there !  Blood  will  out !  Mad  devil, 
indeed,  is  a  racer  in  a  citizen's  gig !  Spavined, 
and  wind-galled,  and  foundered — let  the  bruta 
go  at  last  to  the  knackers  ;  but  by  his  eye,  and 
his  pluck,  and  his  bone,  the  brute  shows  the 
stock  that  he  came  from  I" 

Dolly  opened  his  eyes  and — blinked.  Never 
in  his  gaudy  days  had  Jasper  half  so  openly  re- 
vealed what,  perhaps,  had  been  always  a  sore 
in  his  pride;  and  his  outburst  now  may  possibly 
aid  the  reader  to  a  subtler  comprehension  of  the 
arrogance,  and  levity,  and  egotism,  which  ac- 
companied his  insensibility  to  honor,  and  had 
converted  his  very  claim  to  the  blood  of  a  gen- 
tleman into  an  excuse  for  a  cynic's  disdain  of 
the  very  virtues  for  which  a  gentleman  is  most 
desirous  of  obtaining  credit.  But  by  a  very  or- 
dinary process  in  the  human  mind,  as  Jasper 
had  fallen  lower  and  lower  into  the  lees  and 
dregs  of  fortune,  his  pride  had  more  prominent- 
ly emerged  from  tjie  group  of  the  other  and 
more  flaunting  vices  by  which,  in  health  and 
high  spirits,  it  had  been  pushed  aside  and  out- 
shone. 

"  Humph  !"  said  Poole,  after  a  pause.  "  If 
Dan-ell  was  as  uncinl  to  you  as  he  was  to  me, 
I  don't  wonder  that  you  owe  him  a  grudge. 
But  even  if  you  do  lose  temper  in  seeing  him, 
it  might  rather  do  good  than  not.  You  can 
make  yourself  cursedly  unpleasant  if  you  choose 
it ;  and  perhaps  you  will  have  a  better  chance 
of  getting  your  own  terms  if  they  see  you  can 
bite  as  well  as  bark !  Set  at  Darrell  and  worry 
him;  it  is  not  fair  to  worry  nobody  but  me  I" 

"Dolly,  don't  bluster!  If  I  could  stand  at 
his  door,  or  stop  him  in  the  streets,  with  the 
girl  in  my  hand,  your  advice  would  be  judicious. 
The  world  would  not  care  for  a  row  between  a 
rich  man  and  a  penniless  son-in-law.  But  an 
interesting  young  lady,  who  calls  him  grandfa- 
ther, and  falls  at  his  knees,  he  could  not  send 
her  to  hard  labor ;  and  if  he  does  not  believe  in 
her  birth,  let  the  thing  but  just  get  into  the 
newspapers,  and  there  are  plenty  who  will ; 
and  I  should  be  in  a  very  different  position  for 
treating.  'Tis  just  because,  if  I  meet  Darrell 
again,  I  don't  wish  that  again  it  should  be  all 
bark  and  no  bite,  that  I  postpone  the  interview. 
All  your  own  laziness — exert  youi-self  and  find  ] 
the  girl."  "  \ 

"  But  I  can't  find  the  girl,  and  you  know  it  I  ' 
And  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Losely,  Colonel  Mor- 
ley,  who  is  a  very  shrewd  man,  does  not  believe 
in  the  girl's  existence."  | 

"Does  not  he!  I  begin  to  doubt  it  myself. 
But,  at  all  events,  you  can't  doubt  of  mine",  and 
I  am  grateful  for  yours ;  and  since  you  have 
given  me  the  trouble  of  coming  here  to  no  pur- 
pose, I  may  as  well  take  the  next  week's  pay 
in  advance — four  sovereigns,  if  you  please,  Dol- 
ly Poole." 


a  daughter  sufficiently  artful  to  produce.  And 
pleased  to  think  that  the  sharper  was  thus  un- 
provided with  a  means  of  annoyance,  which, 
skillfully  managed,  might  have  been  seriously 
harassing ;  and  convinced  that  when  Jasper 
found  no  farther  notice  taken  of  him,  he  himself 
would  be  compelled  to  petition  for  the  terms 
he  now  rejected,  the  Colonel  dryly  informed 
Poole  "that  his  interference  was  at  an  end; 
that  if  Mr.  Losely,  either  through  himself,  or 
through  Mr.  Poole,  or  any  one  else,  presumed 
to  address  :Mr.  Darrell  direct,  the  offer  previous- 
ly made  would  be  peremptorily  and  irrevocably 
withdrawn.  I  myself,"  added  the  Colonel, 
"shall  be  going  abroad  veiy  shortly,  for  the 
rest  of  the  summer ;  and  should  Mr.  Loselv,  in 
the  mean  while,  think  better  of  a  proposal  which 
secures  him  from  want,  I  refer  him  to  ]\Ir.  Dar- 
rell's  solicitor.  To  that  proposal,  according  to 
your  account  of  his  destitution,  he  must  come 
sooner  or  later;  and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  he 
has  in  yourself  so  judicious  an  adviser" — a  com- 
pliment which  by  no  means  consoled  the  miser- 
able Poole. 

In  the  briefest  words,  Alban  infonned  Dar- 
rell of  his  persuasion  that  Jasper  was  not  only 
without  evidence  to  support  a  daughter's  claim, 
but  that  the  daughter  herself  was  still  in  that 
part  of  Virgil's  Hades  appropriated  to  souls  that 
have  not  yet  appeared  upon  the  upper  earth,  and 
that  Jasper  himself,  although  holding  back,  as 
might  be  naturally  expected,  in  the  hope  of 
conditions  more  to  his  taste,  had  only  to  be  left 
quietly  to  his  own  meditations  in  order  to  rec- 
ognize the  advantages  of  emigration.  Another 
£100  a  year  or  so,  it  is  true,  he  might  bargain 
for,  and  such  a  demand  might  be  worth  conced- 
ing. But,  on  the  whole,  Alban  congratulated 
Darrell  upon  the  probability  of  hearing  very  lit- 
tle more  of  the  son-in-law,  and  no  more  at  all 
of  the  son-in-law's  daughter. 

Darrell  made  no  comment  nor  reply.  A 
grateful  look,  a  warm  pressure  of  the  hand',  and, 
when  the  subject  was  changed,  a  clearer  brow 
and  livelier  smile,  thanked  the  English  Alban 
better  than  all  words. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Another  halt — Change  of  Horses — and  a  turn  on  the  road. 
CoLoyEL  MoKLEY,  on  learning  that  Jasper 
declined  a  personal  conference  with  himself, 
and  that  the  proposal  of  an  interview  with  Jas- 
per's alleged  daughter  was  equally  scouted  or 
put  aside,  became  still  more  confirmed  in  his 
beUef  that  Jasper  had  not  yet  been  blessed  with 


CHAPTER  XIH. 

Colonel  Morley  shows  that  it  is  not  without  reason  that 
he  enjoys  his  reputation  <;f  knowing  something  about 
every  body. 

"Well  met,  "said  Darrell,  the  day  after  Alban 
had  conveyed  to  him  the  comforting  assurances 
which  had  taken  one  thorn  from  his  side — dis- 
persed one  cloud  in  his  evening  sky.  "Well 
met,"  said  DaiTell,  encountering  the  Colonel  a 
few  paces  from  his  own  door.  "  Pray  walk  with 
me  as  far  as  the  New  Road.  I  have  promised 
Lionel  to  visit  the  studio  of  an  artist  friend  of 
his,  in  whom  he  chooses  to  find  a  Rafiaelle,  and 
in  whom  I  suppose,  at  the  price  of  truth,  Ishall 
be  urbanely  compelled  to  compliment  a  daub- 
er." 

"  Do  you  speak  of  Frank  Vance  ?" 

"  The  same!" 

"You  could  not  visit  a  worthier  man,  nor 
compliment  a  more  premising  artist.  Vance  is 
one  of  the  few  who  unite  gusto  and  patience, 
fancy  and  brushwork.  His  female  heads,  in  es- 
pecial, are  exquisite,  though  they  are  all,  I  con- 


202 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


fess,  too  much  like  one  another.  The  man  him- 
self is  a  thoroughly  line  fellow.  He  has  been 
much  made  of  in  good  society,  and  remains  un- 
spoiled. You  will  find  his  manner  rather  off- 
hand, the  reverse  of  shy ;  partly,  perhaps,  be- 
cause he  has  in  himself  the  racy  freshness  and 
boldness  wliich  he  gives  to  his  colors ;  partly, 
perhaps,  also,  because  he  has  in  his  art  the  self- 
esteem  that  patricians  take  from  their  pedigree, 
and  shakes  a  duke  by  the  hand  to  prevent  the 
duke  holding  out  to  him  a  finger." 

"Good,"  said  Darrell,  with  his  rare,  manly 
laugh.  "Being  shy  myself,  I  like  men  who 
meet  one  half-way.  I  see  that  we  shall  be  at 
our  ease  with  each  other." 

"And  perhaps  still  more  when  I  tell  you  that 
he  is  connected  with  an  old  Eton  friend  of  ours, 
and  deriving  great  benefit  from  that  connection ; 
you  remember  poor  Sidney  Branthwaite  ?" 

"  To  be  sure.  He  and  I  were  great  friends  at 
Eton — somewhat  in  tlie  same  position  of  pride 
and  poverty.  Of  all  the  boys  in  the  school  we 
two  had  the  least  pocket-money.  Poor  Branth- 
waite! I  lost  sight  of  him  afterward.  HeM-ent 
into  the  Church,  got  only  a  curacy,  and  died 
young." 

"And  left  a  son,  poorer  than  himself,  who 
married  Frank  Vance's  sister." 

"  You  don't  say  so.  The  Branthwaites  were 
of  good  old  famih' ;  what  is  Mr.  Vance's  ?" 

"Respectable  enough.  Vance's  father  was 
one  of  those  clever  men  who  have  too  many 
strings  to  their  bow.  He,  too,  was  a  painter; 
but  he  was  also  a  man  of  letters,  in  a  sort  of  a 
way — had  a  share  in  a  journal,  in  which  he 
^\Tote  Criticisms  on  the  Fine  Arts.  A  musical 
composer,  too.  Rather  a  fine  gentleman,  I  sus- 
pect, with  a  wife  who  was  rather  a  fine  lady. 
Their  house  was  much  frequented  by  artists  and 
literary  men :  old  Vance,  in  short,  was  hospita- 
ble— las  wife  extravagant.  Believing  that  pos- 
terity would  do  that  justice  to  his  pictures  which 
Ills  contemporaries  refused,  Vance  left  to  his 
family  no  other  pi'ovision.  After  selling  his 
pictures  and  paying  his  debts,  there  was  just 

enough  left  to  bury  him.    Fortunately,  Sir , 

the  great  painter  of  that  day,  had  aheady  con- 
ceived a  liking  to  Frank  Vance — then  a  mere 
boy — who  had  shown  genius  from  an  infant,  as 

all  true  artists  do.     Sir took  him  into  his 

studio,  and  gave  him  lessons.     It  would  have 

been  unlike  Sir ,  who  was  open-hearted  but 

close-fisted,  to  give  any  thing  else.  But  the  boy 
contrived  to  support  his  mother  and  sister.  That 
fellow,  who  is  now  as  arrogant  a  stickler  for  the 
dignity  of  art  as  you  or  my  Lord  Chancellor 
may  be  for  that  of  the  bar,  stooped  then  to  deal 
clandestinely  with  fancy-shops,  and  imitate  Wat- 
teau  on  fans.  I  have  now  two  hand-screens  that 
he  painted  for  a  shop  in  Rathbone  Place.  I  sup- 
pose he  may  have  got  10^\  for  tbem,  and  now 
any  admirer  of  Frank's  would  give  £100  apiece 
for  them." 

"  That  is  the  true  soul  in  which  genius  lodges, 
and  out  of  which  fire  springs,"  cried  Darrell, 
cordially.  "Give  me  the  fire  that  lurks  in  the 
flint,  and  answers  by  light  the  stroke  of  the  hard 
steel.  I'm  glad  Lionel  has  won  a  friend  in 
such  a  man.  Sidney  Branthwaitc's  son  married 
Vance's  sister — after  Vance  had  won  reputa 
tion  ?" 

"  No ;  while  Vance  was  still  a  boy.     Youn^ 


Arthur  Branthwaite  was  an  orphan.  If  he  had 
any  living  relations,  they  were  too  poor  to  assist 
him.  He  wrote  poetry  much  praised  by  the 
critics  (they  deserve  to  be  hanged,  those  critics !) 
— scribbled,  I  suppose,  in  old  Vance's  journal; 
saw  Mary  Vance  a  little  before  her  father  died ; 
fell  in  love  with  her;  and  on  the  strength  of  a 
volume  of  verse,  in  which  the  critics  all  solemnly 
deposed  to  his  surpassing  riches — of  imagina- 
tion, rushed  to  the  altar,  and  sacrificed  a  wife 
to  the  Muses !  Those  villainous  critics  will  have 
a  dark  account  to  render  in  the  next  world  I 
Poor  Arthur  Branthwaite  I  For  the  sake  of  our 
old  friend  his  father,  I  bought  a  copy  of  his 
little  volume.  Little  as  the  volume  was,  I  could 
not  read  it  through." 

"What! — below  contempt?" 

"On  the  contrary,  above  comprehension.  All 
poetry  praised  by  critics  nowadays  is  as  hard  to 
understand  as  a  hieroglyphic.  I  own  a  weakness 
for  Pope  and  common  sense.  I  could  keep  up 
with  our  age  as  far  as  Byron ;  after  him  I  M'as 
thrown  out.  However,  Arthur  was  declared  by 
the  critics  to  be  a  great  improvement  on  Byron 
— more  '  poetical  in  form' — more  '  a;sthetically 
artistic' — more  'objective'  or  'subjective'  (I  am 
sure  I  forget  which,  but  it  was  one  or  the  other, 
nonsensical,  and  not  English)  in  his  views  of 
man  and  nature.  Very  possibly.  All  I  know 
is — I  bought  the  poems,  but  could  not  read 
them ;  the  critics  read  them,  but  did  not  buy. 
All  that  Frank  Vance  could  make  by  painting 
hand-screens  and  fans  and  album  scraps  he 
sent,  I  believe,  to  the  poor  poet ;  but  I  fear  it 
did  not  suffice.  Arthur,  I  suspect,  must  have 
been  publishing  another  volume  on  his  own  ac- 
count. I  saw  a  Monody  on  something  or  other, 
by  Arthur  Branthwaite,  advertised,  and  no  doubt 
Frank's  fans  and  hand-screens  must  have  melt- 
ed into  the  printer's  bill.  But  the  Monody  nev- 
er appeared :  the  poet  died,  his  young  wife  too. 
Frank  Vance  remains  a  bachelor,  and  sneers  at 
gentility — abhors  poets — is  insulted  if  you  prom- 
ise posthumotis  fame — gets  the  best  price  he 
can  for  his  pictures — and  is  proud  to  be  thought 
a  miser.    Here  we  are  at  his  door." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ilomantic  Love  pathologically  regarded  by  Frank  Vance 
and  Alban  Morley. 

Vaxce  was  before  his  easel,  Lionel  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  Never  was  Darrell  more 
genial  than  he  was  that  day  to  Frank  Vance. 
The  two  men  took  to  each  other  at  once,  and 
talked  as  familiarly  as  if  the  retired  la\\yer  and 
the  rising  painter  were  old  fellow-travelers  along 
the  same  road  of  life.  Darrell  was  really  an 
exquisite  judge  of  art,  and  his  praise  was  the 
more  gratifying  because  discriminating.  Of 
course  he  gave  the  due  meed  of  panegyric  to 
the  female  heads,  by  which  the  artist  had  become 
so  renowned.  Lionel  took  his  kinsman  aside, 
and,  with  a  mournful  expression  of  face,  showed 
him  the  portrait  by  which  all  those  varying  ideals 
had  been  suggested — the  poi'trait  of  Sophy  as 
Titania. 

"And  that  is  Lionel,"  said  the  artist,  pointing 
to  the  rough  outline  of  Bottom. 

"Pish!"  said  Lionel,  angrily.     Then  turning 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


203 


to  DaiTcU— "This  is  the  Sophy  we  have  failed 
to  find,  Sir — is  it  not  a  lovely  face  ?"' 

*'It  is,  indeed,"  said  Darrell.  "But  that 
nameless  refinement  in  expression — that  arch 
vet  tender  elegance  in  the  simple,  watchful  atti- 
tude— these,  Mr.  Vance,  must  be  your  additions 
to  the  original." 

'•No,  I  assure  you.  Sir,"  said  Lionel;  "be- 
sides that  elegance,  that  refinement,  there  was 
a  delicacy  in  "the  look  and  air  of  that  child,  to 
which  Vance  failed  to  do  justice.  Own  it, 
Frank." 

"Reassure  yourself,  Mr.  Darrell, "  said  Vance, 
"  of  any  fears"  which  Lionel's  enthusiasm  might 
excite.'  He  tells  me  that  Titania  is  in  Amer- 
ica; vet,  after  all,  I  would  rather  he  saw  her 
ao-ain  —  no  cure  for  love  at  first  sight  like  a 
second  sight  of  the  beloved  object  after  a  long 
absence." 

Daerel  (somewhat  crravely).  "  A  hazardous 
remedy — it  might  kill/if  it  did  not  cure."' 

CoLOXEL  MoKLEY.  "  I  suspect,  from  Vance's 
manner,  that  he  has  tested  its  efficacy  on  his 
own  person." 

Lionel.  "Xo,  mon  Colonel — I'll  answer  for 
Vance.     27einlove!     Never." 

Vance  colored — gave  a  touch  to  the  nose  of  a 
Roman  senator  in  the  famous  classical  picture 
which  he  was  then  painting  for  a  merchant  at 
Manchester — and  made  no  reply.  Darrell  looked 
at  the  artist  -with  a  sharp  and  searching  glance. 

Colonel  !Moeley.  '  •  Then  all  the  more  credit 
to  Vance  for  his  intuitive  perception  of  philo- 
sophical truth.  Suppose,  my  dear  Lionel,  that 
we  light,  one  idle  day,  on  a  beautiful  novel,  a 
glowing  romance — suppose  that,  by  chance,  we 
are  torn  from  the  book  in  the  middle  of  the  in- 
terest— we  remain  under  the  spell  of  the  illusion 
— we  recall  the  scenes — we  try  to  guess  what 
should  have  been  the  sequel — we  think  that  no 
romance  ever  was  so  captivating,  simply  because 
we  were  not  allowed  to  conclude  it.  Well,  if, 
some  years  aftemard,  the  romance  fall  again 
in  our  way,  and  we  open  at  the  page  where  Ave 
left  oft',  we  cry,  in  the  maturity  of  our  sober 
judgment,  'ZSfawkish  stuft"! — is  this  the  same 
thing  that  I  once  thought  so  beautiful? — how 
one's  tastes  do  alter !' " 

Darrell.  "Does  it  not  depend  on  the  age 
in  which  one  began  the  romance?" 

Lionel.  "  Rather,  let  me  think.  Sir,  upon  the 
real  depth  of  the  interest — the  true  beauty  of 
the — " 

Vance  (interrupting).  "Heroine?  —  Not  at 
all,  Lionel.  I  once  fell  in  love — incredible  as 
it  may  seem  to  you — nine  years  ago  last  Janu- 
ary. I  was  too  poor  then  to  aspire  to  any  young 
lady's  hand — therefore  I  did  not  tell  my  love, 
but  'let  concealment,'  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  She 
went  away  with  her  mamma  to  complete  her 
education  on  the  Continent.  I  remained  'Pa- 
tience on  a  monument.'  She  was  always  before 
my  eyes — the  slenderest,  shyest  creature — ^just 
eighteen.  I  never  had  an  idea  that  she  could 
grow  any  older,  less  slender,  or  less  shy.  Well, 
four  years  afterward  (just  before  we  made  our 
excursion  into  Surrey,  Lionel),  she  returned  to 
England,  still  unmarried.  I  went  to  a  party  at 
which  I  knew  she  was  to  be — saw  her,  and  was 
cured." 

"  Bad  case  of  small-pox,  or  what  ?"  asked  the 
Colonel,  smiling. 


Vance.  "  Nay ;  every  body  said  she  was  ex- 
tremely improved — that  was  the  mischief — she 
had  improved  herself  out  of  my  fancy.  I  had 
been  faithful  as  wax  to  one  settled  impression, 
and  when  I  saw  a  fine,  full-formed,  young 
Frenchified  lady,  quite  at  her  ease,  armed  with 
eye-glass  and  bouquet  and  bustle,  away  went 
my  dream  of  the  slim  blushing  maiden.  The 
Colonel  is  quite  right,  Lionel ;  the  romance 
once  suspended,  'tis  a  haunting  remembrance 
till  thrown  again  in  our  way,  but  complete  dis- 
illusion if  we  try  to  renew  it ;  though  I  swear 
that  in  my  case  the  interest  was  deep,  and  the 
heroine  improved  in  her  beauty.  So  with  you 
and  that  dear  little  creature.  See  her  again, 
and  you'll  tease  me  no  more  to  give  you  that 
portrait  of  Titania  at  watch  over  Bottom's  soft 
slumbers.  All  a  Mid-summer  Night's  Dream, 
Lionel.  Titania  fades  back  into  the  arms  of 
Oberon,  and  would  not  be  Titania  if  you  could 
make  her — Mrs.  Bottom." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Even  Colonel  ilorley,  knowing  every  body  and  every 
thing,  is  puzzled  when  it  comes  to  the  plain  question 
— '•  What  will  he  do  with  it ":" 

"I  AM  delighted  with  Vance,"  said  Darrell, 
when  he  and  the  Colonel  were  again  walking 
arm  in  arm.  '"His  is  not  one  of  those  meagre 
intellects  which  have  nothing  to  spare  out  of  the 
professional  line.  He  has  humor.  Humor — 
strength's  rich  superfluity." 

"  I  like  your  definition,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"And  humor  in  Vance,  though  fantastic,  is  not 
without  subtlety.  There  was  much  real  kind- 
ness in  his  obvious  design  to  quiz  Lionel  out  of 
that  silly  enthusiasm  for — " 

"For  a  pretty  child,  reared  up  to  be  a  stroll- 
ing player,"  interrupted  Darrell.  "Don't  call 
it  silly  enthusiasm.  I  call  it  chivalrous  com- 
passion. Were  it  other  than  compassion,  it 
would  not  be  enthusiasm,  it  would  be  degrada- 
tion. But  do  you  believe,  then,  that  Vance's 
confession  of  first  love,  and  its  cure,  was  but  a 
whimsical  invention?' 

Colonel  Morley.  "Not  so.  Many  a  grave 
truth  is  spoken  jesting^ly.  "  I  have  no  doubt 
that,  allowing  for  the  pardonable  exaggeration 
of  a  raconteur,  Vance  was  narrating  an  episode 
in  his  own  life." 

Darrell.  "Do  you  think  that  a  grown  man, 
who  has  ever  really  felt  love,  can  make  a  jest  of 
it,  and  to  mere  acquaintances  ?" 

Colonel  Morley.  "Yes;  if  he  be  so  thor- 
oughly cured  that  he  has  made  a  jest  of  it  to 
himself.  And  the  more  lightly  he  speaks  of  it, 
perhaps  the  more  solemnly  at  one  time  he  felt 
it.  Levity  is  his  revenge  on  the  passion  that 
fooled  him." 

Darrell.  "You  are  evidently  an  experienced 
philosopher  in  the  lore  of  such  folly.  '  ConsuU 
tus  insapientis  snpienticE.'  Yet  I  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  vou  have  ever  been  in  love." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  the  Colonel,  bluntly, 
"  and  very  often !  Every  body  at  my  age  has — 
except  yourself.  So  like  a  man's  obser^-ation, 
that,"  co'ntinued  the  Colonel,  with  much  tartness. 
"No  man  ever  thinks  another  man  capable  of 
a  profound  and  romantic  sentiment  1" 


20i 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Darrell.  "  True ;  I  own  my  shallow  fault, 
and  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons.  So  then 
you  really  believe,  from  your  own  experience, 
that  there  is  much  in  Vance's  theory  and  your 
own  very  happy  illustration  ?  Could  we,  after 
many  years,  turn  back  to  the  romance  at  the 
page  at  which  we  left  off',  we  should — " 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Not  care  a  straw  to  read 
on!  Certainly,  half  the  peculiar  charm  of  a 
person  beloved  must  be  ascribed  to  locality  and 
circumstance." 

Darrell.   "  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

Colonel  Morley.  "Then,  as  you  liked  my 
former  illustration,  I  will  explain  myself  by  an- 
other one,  more  homely.  In  a  room  to  which 
you  are  accustomed,  there  is  a  piece  of  furniture, 
or  an  ornament,  which  so  exactly  suits  the  place, 
that  you  say — '  The  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw !' 
You  go  away — you  return — the  j)iece  of  furni- 
ture or  the  ornament  has  been  moved  into  an- 
other room.  You  see  it  there,  and  you  say — 
'Bless  me,  is  that  the  thing  I  so  much  admired !' 
The  strange  room  does  not  suit  it — losing  its 
old  associations  and  accessories,  it  has  lost  its 
charm.  So  it  is  with  human  beings — seen  in 
one  place,  tlie  place  would  be  nothing  without 
them — seen  in  another,  tlie  place  without  them 
would  be  all  the  better !" 

Darrell  (musingly).  "  There  are  some  puz- 
zles in  life  which  resemble  the  riddles  a  child 
asks  you  to  solve.  Your  imagination  can  not 
descend  low  enough  for  the  right  guess.  Yet, 
when  you  are  told,  you  are  obliged  to  say — 'How 
clever !'     Man  lives  to  learn." 

"  Since  you  have  arrived  at  that  conviction," 
replied  Colonel  Morle^^,  amused  by  liis  friend's 
gravity,  "I  hope  that  you  will  rest  satisfied  with 
the  experiences  of  Vance  and  myself;  and  that 
if  you  have  a  mind  to  propose  to  one  of  the 
young  ladies  whose  merits  we  have  already  dis- 
cussed, you  will  not  deem  it  necessary  to  try 
what  effect  a  prolonged  abscHce  might  produce 
on  your  good  resolution." 

"No!"  said  Darrell,  with  sudden  animation. 
"  Before  three  days  are  over,  my  mind  shall  be 
made  up." 

"  Bravo  ! — as  to  whom  of  the  three  you  would 
ask  in  mari'iage  ?" 

"  Or  as  to  the  idea  of  ever  marrying  again. 
Adieu.     I  am  going  to  knock  at  that  door." 

"  Mr.  Vyvyan's !  Ah,  is  it  so,  indeed  ?  Veri- 
ly, you  are  a  true  Dare-all." 

"Do  not  be  alarmed.  I  go  afterward  to  an 
exhibition  with  Lady  Adela,  and  I  dine  with 
the  Carr  Viponts.  My  choice  is  not  yet  made, 
and  my  hand  still  free." 

"His  hand  still  free!"  muttered  the  Colonel, 
pursuing  his  walk  alone.  "Yes  —  but,  three 
days  hence — What  will  he  do  with  it  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVL 

Guy  Darren's  Decision. 

Guy  Darrell  returned  liome  from  Carr  Vi- 
pont's  dinner  at  a  late  hour.  On  his  table  was 
a  note  from  Lady  Adela's  father,  cordially  in- 
viting Darrell  to  pass  the  next  week  at  his  coun- 
try house.  London  was  now  emptying  fast. 
On  the  table-tray  was  a  parcel,  containing  a 
book  which  Darrell  had  lent  to  Miss  Vyvyan 


some  weeks  ago,  and  a  note  from  herself.  In 
calling  at  her  father's  house  that  morning,  he 
had  learned  that  Mr.  Vyvyan  had  suddenly  re- 
solved to  take  her  into  Switzerland,  with  the 
view  of  passing  the  next  winter  in  Italy.  The 
room  was  filled  with  loungers  of  both  sexes. 
Darrell  had  staid  but  a  short  time.  The  leave- 
taking  had  been  somewhat  formal — Flora  un- 
usually silent.  He  opened  her  note,  and  read 
the  first  lines  listlessly ;  those  that  followed, 
with  a  changing  cheek  and  an  earnest  eye.  He 
laid  down  the  note  very  gently,  again  took  it  up, 
and  reperused.  Then  he  held  it  to  the  candle, 
and  it  dropped  from  his  hand  in  tinder.  "The 
innocent  child,"  murmured  he,  with  a  soft  pa- 
ternal tenderness  ;  "x«he  knows  not  what  she 
writes."  He  began  to  pace  the  room  with  his 
habitual  restlessness  when  in  solitary  thought — 
often  stopping  —  often  sighing  heavily.  At 
length  his  face  cleared — his  lips  became  firm- 
ly set.  He  summoned  his  favorite  servant. 
"Mills,"  said  he,  "I  shall  leave  town  on  horse- 
back as  soon  as  the  sun  rises.  Put  what  I  may 
require  for  a  day  or  two  into  the  saddle-bags. 
Possibly,  however,  I  may  be  back  by  dinner-time. 
Call  me  at  five  o'clock,  and  then  go  round  to  the 
stables.  I  shall  require  no  groom  to  attend  me." 
The  next  morning,  while  the  streets  were  de- 
serted, no  houses  as  yet  astir,  but  the  sun  bright, 
the  air  fresh,  Guy  Dan-ell  rode  from  his  door. 
He  did  not  return  the  same  day,  nor  the  next, 
nor  at  all.  But,  late  in  the  evening  of  the  sec- 
ond day,  his  horse,  reeking-hot  and  evidently 
hard-ridden,  stopped  at  the  porch  of  Fawley 
Manor-House  ;  and  Darrell  flung  himself  from 
the  saddle,  and  into  Fairthorn's  arms.  "Back 
again — back  again — and  to  leave  no  more !"  said 
he,  looking  round ;  "  Spes  et  Fortuna  valete .'" 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A   Man's   Letter  —  unsatisfactory   and  provoking  as   a 
man's  letters  always  are. 

Guy  Darrell  to  Colonel  Morley. 

Fawley  Manou-Housh,  August  19,  IS — . 
I  HAVE  decided,  my  dear  Alban.  I  did  not 
take  three  days  to  do  so,  though  the  third  day 
may  be  just  over  ere  you  learn  my  decision.  I 
shall  never  marry  again.  I  abandon  that  last 
dream  of  declining  years.  My  object  in  return- 
ing to  the  London  world  was  to  try  whether  I 
could  not  find,  among  the  fairest  and  most  at- 
tractive women  that  the  world  produces  —  at 
least  to  an  English  eye  —  some  one  who  could 
inspire  me  with  that  singleness  of  affection 
which  could  alone  justify  the  hope  that  I  might 
win,  in  return,  a  wife's  esteem  and  a  contented 
home.  That  object  is  now  finally  relinquished, 
and  with  it  all  idea  of  resuming  the  life  of  cit- 
ies. I  might  have  re-entered  a  political  career, 
had  I  first  secured  to  myself  a  mind  sufficiently 
serene  and  healthful  for  duties  that  need  the 
concentration  of  thought  and  desire.  Such  a 
state  of  mind  I  can  not  secure.  I  have  striven 
for  it ;  I  am  battted.  It  is  said  that  politics  are 
a  jealous  mistress — that  they  require  the  whole 
man.  The  saying  is  not  invariably  true  in  the 
application  it  commonly  receives — that  is,  a  pol- 
itician may  have  some  other  employment  of  in- 
tellect, which  rather  enlarges  his  powers  than 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


205 


distracts  their  political  uses.  Successful  poli- 
ticians have  united  with  great  parliamentary 
toil  and  triumph  legal  occupations  or  literary  or 
learned  studies.  But  politics  do  require  that 
the  heart  should  be  free,  and  at  peace  from  all 
more  absorbing  private  anxieties  —  from  the 
gnawing  of  a  memory  or  a  care,  which  dulls 
ambition  and  paralyzes  energy.  In  this  sense 
politics  do  require  the  whole  man.  If  I  return- 
ed to  politics  now,  1  should  fail  to  them,  and 
they  to  me.  I  feel  that  the  brief  interval  be- 
tween me  and  the  grave  has  need  of  repose  :  I 
find  that  repose  here.  I  have  therefore  given 
the  necessary  orders  to  dismiss  the  pompous 
retinue  wliich  I  left  behind  me,  and  instructed 
ray  agent  to  sell  my  London  house  for  whatever 
it  mtiy  fetch.  I  was  unwilling  to  sell  it  before 
— unwilling  to  abandon  the  hope,  however  faint, 
that  I  might  yet  regain  strength  for  action. 
But  the  very  struggle  to  obtain  such  strength 
leaves  me  exhausted  more. 

You  may  believe  thaylt  is  not  without  a  pang 
— less  of  pride  than  ot  remorse — that  I  resign 
unfulfilled  the  object  toward  which  all  my  ear- 
lier life  was  so  resolutely  shaped.  The  house  I 
had  promised  my  father  to  refound  dies  to  dust 
in  my  grave.  To  my  father's  blood  no  heir  to 
my  wealth  can  trace.  Yet  it  is  a  consolation  to 
think  tjiat  Lionel  Haughton  is  one  on  whom  my 
father  would  have  smiled  approvingly.  At  my 
death,  therefore,  at  least  the  old  name  will  not 
die  :  Lionel  Haughton  will  take  and  be  worthy 
to  bear  it.  Strange  weakness  of  mine,  you  will 
say  ;  but  I  can  not  endure  the  thought  that  the 
old  name  should  be  quite  blotted  out  of  the 
land.  I  trust  that  Lionel  may  early  form  a 
suitable  and  happy  marriage.  Sure  that  he  will 
not  choose  ignobly,  I  impose  no  fetters  on  his 
choice. 

One  word  only  on  that  hateful  subject,  con- 
fided so  tardily  to  your  friendship,  left  so  thank- 
fully to  your  discretion.  Now  that  I  have  once 
more  buried  myself  in  Fawley,  it  is  very  unlike- 
ly that  the  man  it  pains  me  to  name  will  seek 
me  here.  If  he  does,  he  can  not  molest  me  as 
if  I  were  in  the  London  world.  Continue,  then, 
I  pray  you,  to  leave  him  alone.  And  in  adopt- 
ing your  own  shrewd  belief  that,  after  all,  there 
is  no  such  child  as  he  pretends  lo  claim,  my 
mind  becomes  tranquilized  on  all  that  part  of 
my  private  griefs. 

Farewell,  old  school-friend !  Here,  so  far  as 
I  can  foretell — here,  where  my  life  began,  it  re- 
turns, when  Heaven  pleases,  to  close.  Here  I 
could  not  ask  you  to  visit  me :  what  is  rest  to 
me  would  be  loss  of  time  to  you.  But  in  my 
late  and  vain  attempt  to  re-enter  that  existence 
in  which  you  have  calmly  and  wisely  gathered 
round  yourself  "  all  that  should  accompany  old 
age — honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends" 
— nothing  so  repaid  the  effort — nothing  now  so 
pleasantly  remains  to  recollection — as  the  brief 
renewal  of  that  easy  commune  which  men  like 
me  never  know,  save  with  those  whose  laughter 
brings  back  to  them  a  gale  from  the  old  play- 
ground. "  Vive,  vale ,-"  I  will  not  add,  "  Sis 
inemor  mei."  So  many  my  obligations  to  your 
kindness,  that  you  will  be  forced  to  remember 
me  whenever  you  recall  the  nut  "  painful  sub- 
jects" of  early  friendship  and  lasting  gratitude. 
Eecall  only  those  when  reminded  of 

Guy  Dakeell. 


CHAPTER  XVHL 


I  No  coinage  in  circulation  so  fluctuates  in  value  as  the 
I  worth  of  a  JIarriageable  Man. 

Colonel  Morley  was  not  surprised  (that,  we 
know,  he  could  not  be,  by  any  fresh  experience 
of  human  waywardness  and  caprice),  but  much 
disturbed  and  much  vexed  by  the  unexpected 
nature  of  Darrell's  communication.  Schemes 
for  Darrell's  future  had  become  plans  of  his  oAvn. 
Talk  with  his  old  school-fellow  had,  within  the 
last  three  months,  entered  into  the  pleasures  of 
his  age.  Darrell's  abrupt  and  final  renunciation 
of  this  social  world  made  at  once  a  void  in  the 
business  of  Alban's  mind,  and  in  the  affections 
of  Alban's  heart.  And  no  adequate  reason  as- 
signed for  so  sudden  a  flight  and  so  morbid  a 
resolve !  Some  tormenting  remembrance — some 
rankling  grief— distinct  from  those  of  which  Al- 
ban  was  cognizant,  those  in  which  he  had  been 
consulted,  was  implied  but  by  vague  and  general 
hints.  But  what  was  the  remembrance  of  the 
grief,  Alban  Morley,  who  knew  every  thing,  was 
quite  persuaded  that  Darrell  would  never  suffer 
him  to  know.  Could  it  be  in  any  way  connected 
with  those  three  young  ladies  to  whom  Darrell's 
attentions  had  been  so  perversely  impartial? 
The  Colonel  did  not  fail  to  observe  that  to  those 
yoimg  ladies  Darrell's  letter  did  not  even  allude. 
Was  it  not  possible  that  he  had  really  felt  for 
one  of  them  a  deeper  sentiment  than  a  man  ad- 
vanced in  years  ever  likes  to  own  even  to  his 
nearest  friend — hazarded  a  proposal,  and  met 
with  a  rebuff?  If  so,  Alban  conjectured  the  fe- 
male culprit  by  whom  the  sentiment  had  been 
inspired  and  the  rebuff  administered.  "That 
mischievous  kitten,  Flora  Vyvyan,"  growled  the 
Colonel.  "  I  always  felt  that  she  had  the  claws 
of  a  tigress  under  that  jxitte  de  velours  J"  Roused 
by  this  suspicion,  he  sallied  forth  to  call  on  the 
Vyvyans.  Mr.  Vyvyan,  a  widower,  one  of  those 
quiet  gentlemanlike  men  who  sit  much  in  the 
drawing-room  and  like  receiving  morning  vis- 
itors, was  at  home  to  him.  "  So  Darrell  has 
left  town  for  tlie  season,"  said  the  Colonel, 
pushing  straight  to  the  point. 

"Yes, "  said  Mr.  Vyvyan.  "  I  had  a  note  from 
him  this  morning,  to  say  he  had  renounced  all 
hojie  of — " 

"What?"  cried  the  Colonel. 

"Joining  us  in  Switzerland.  I  am  so  soriy. 
Flora  still  more  sorry.  She  is  accustomed  to 
have  her  own  way,  and  she  had  set  her  heart  on 
hearing  Darrell  read  '  Manfred'  in  sight  of  the 
Jung  Fran!" 

'•  Um,"  said  the  Colonel.  "What  might  be 
sport  to  her  might  be  death  to  him.  A  man  at 
his  age  is  not  too  old  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young 
lady  of  hers.  Btit  he  is  too  old  not  to  be  ex- 
tremely ridiculous  to  such  a  young  lady  if  he 
does." 

"Colonel  Morley — Fie!"  cried  an  angry 
voice  behind  him.  Flora  had  entered  the  room 
unobserved.  Her  face  Avas  much  flushed,  and 
her  eyelids  looked  as  if  tears  had  lately  swelled 
beneath  them,  and  were  swelling  still. 

"What  have  I  said  to  merit  your  rebuke?" 
asked  the  Colonel,  composedly. 

"  Said !  Coupled  the  thought  of  ridicule  with 
the  name  of  Mr.  Darrell !" 

"  Take  care,  Morley,"  said  Mr.  Vvvyan, 
laughing.     "Flora  is  positively  superstitious  in 


206 


WHAT  WELL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


her  respect  for  Guy  Darrell ;  and  you  can  not 
offend  her  more  than  by  implying  that  he  is 
mortal.  Nay,  child,  it  is  very  natural.  Quite 
apart  from  his  fame,  there  is  something  in  that 
man's  familiar  talk,  or  rather,  ])erha])s,  in  the 
very  sound  of  his  voice,  which  makes  most  other 
society  seem  flat  and  insipid.  I  feel  it  myself. 
And  when  Flora's  young  admirers  flutter  and 
babble  round  her — ^just  after  Darrell  has  quit- 
ted his  chair  beside  her — they  seem  very  poor 
company.  I'm  sure,  Flora,"  continued  Vyvyan, 
kindly,  "  that  the  mere  acquaintance  of  such  a 
man  has  done  you  a  great  deal  of  good ;  and  I 
am  now  in  great  hopes  that,  whenever  you  mar- 
ry, it  will  be  a  man  of  sense." 

"  Urn !"  again  said  the  Colonel,  eying  Flora 
aslant,  but  with  much  attention.  "  How  I  wish, 
for  my  friend's  sake,  that  he  was  of  an  age  which 
inspired  Miss  Vyvyan  with  less — veneration  !" 

Flora  turned  her  back  on  the  Colonel,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window,  and  her  small  foot  beat- 
ing the  ground  with  nervous  irritation. 

"It  was  given  out  that  Darrell  intended  to 
marry  again,"  said  Mr.  Vyvyan.  "A  man  of 
that  sort  requires  a  very  superior,  highly-edu- 
cated woman ;  and  if  Miss  Carr  Vijiont  had 
been  a  little  more  of  his  age  she  would  have 
just  suited  him.  But  I  am  patriot  enough  to 
hope  that  he  will  remain  single,  and  have  no 
wife  but  his  country,  like  Mr.  Pitt." 

The  Colonel  having  now  satisfied  his  curiosi- 
ty, and  assured  himself  that  Darrell  was,  there 
at  least,  no  rejected  suitor,  rose  and  approached 
Flora  to  make  peace,  and  to  take  leave.  As  he 
held  out  his  hand  he  was  struck  with  the  change 
in  a  countenance  usually  so  gay  in  its  aspect — 
it  spoke  of  more  than  dejection,  it  betrayed  dis- 
tress ;  when  she  took  his  hand  she  retained  it, 
and  looked  into  his  ej'es  wistfully ;  evidently 
there  was  something  on  her  mind  which  she 
wished  to  express,  and  did  not  know  how.  At 
length  she  said  in  a  whisper,  *'  You  are  IMr. 
Darrell's  most  intimate  friend ;  I  have  heard 
him  say  so.     Shall  you  see  him  soon?" 

"I  fear  not ;  but  why  ?" 

"Why?  you,  his  friend;  do  j'ou  not  perceive 
that  he  is  not  happy  ?  I,  a  mere  stranger,  saw 
it  at  the  first.  You  should  cheer  and  comfort 
him ;  you  have  that  right — it  is  a  noble  privi- 
lege." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  Colonel, 
touched,  "you  have  a  better  heart  than  I 
thought  for.  It  is  true  Darrell  is  not  a  happy 
man ;  but  can  you  give  me  any  message  that 
might  cheer  him  more  than  an  old  bachelor's 
commonplace  exhortations  to  take  heart,  forget 
the  rains  of  yesterday,  and  hope  for  some  gleam 
of  sun  on  the  morrow?" 

"  No,"  said  Flora,  sadly,  "  it  would  be  a  pre- 
sumption indeed  in  me  to  affect  the  consoler's 
part ;  but — (her  li])S  quivered) — but  if  I  may 
judge  by  his  letter,  I  may  never  see  him  again." 

"His  letter!  He  has  written  to  you,  then,  as 
well  as  to  your  father  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Flora,  confused  and  coloring,  "  a 
few  lines  in  answer  to  a  silly  note  of  mine  ;  yes, 
tell  him  that  I  shall  never  forget  his  kind  coun- 
sels, his  delicate,  indulgent  construction  of — of 
— in  short,  tell  him  my  father  is  right,  and  that 
I  shall  be  better  and  wiser  all  my  life  for  the 
few  short  weeks  in  which  I  have  known  Guy 
Darrell." 


"  What  secrets  are  you  two  whispering  there  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Vyvyan  from  his  easy  chair. 

"  Ask  her  ten  years  hence,"  said  the  Colonel, 
as  he  retreated  to  the  door.  "The  fairest  leaves 
in  the  flower  are  the  last  that  the  bud  will  dis- 
close." 

From  Mr.  Vyvyan  the  Colonel  went  to  Lord 
's.  His  lordship  had  also  heard  from  Dar- 
rell that  morning;  Darrell  declined  the  invita- 
tion to Hall ;  business  at  Fawley.     Lady 

Adela  had  borne  the  disappointment  with  her 
wonted  serenity  of  temper,  and  had  gone  out 
shopping.  Darrell  had  certainly  not  offered  his 
hand  in  that  quarter ;  had  he  done  so — whether 
refused  or  accepted — all  persons  yet  left  in  Lon- 
don would  have  hea^d  the  news.  Thence  the 
Colonel  repaired  to  Carr  Vipont's.  Lady  Seli- 
na  was  at  home,  and  exceedingly  cross.  Carr 
had  been  astonished  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dar- 
rell, dated  Fawley — left  town  for  the  season 
without  even  calling  to  take  leave — a  most  ec- 
centric man.  She  feared  his  head  was  a  little 
touched — that  he  knew  it,  but  did  not  like  to 
own  it — perhaps  the  doctors  had  told  him  he 
must  keep  quiet,  and  not  excite  himself  with 
politics.  "I  had  thought,"  said  Lady  Selina, 
"  that  he  might  have  felt  a  growing  attachment 
for  Honoria ;  and,  considering  the  disparity  of 
years,  and  that  Honoria  certainly  might  marry 
any  one,  he  was  too  proud  to  incur  the  risk  of 
refusal.  But  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence,  as  a 
relation  and  dear  friend,  that  Honoria  has  a 
very  superior  mind,  and  might  have  overlooked 
the  mere  age :  congenial  tastes — you  under- 
stand. But  on  thinking  it  all  over,  I  begin  to 
doubt  whether  tliat  be  the  true  reason  for  his 
running  away  in  this  wild  sort  of  manner.  My 
maid  tells  me  that  his  house-steward  called  to 
say  that  the  establishment  was  to  be  broken  up. 
That  looks  as  if  he  had  resigned  London  for 
good  ;  just,  too,  when,  Carr  says,  the  crisis,  so 
long  put  off,  is  siu-e  to  burst  on  us.  I'm  quite 
sick  of  clever  men — one  never  knows  how  to 
trust  them ;  if  they  are  not  dishonest,  they  are 
eccentric !  I  have  just  been  telling  Honoria 
that  clever  men  are,  after  all,  the  most  tiresome 
husbands.  Well,  what  makes  yon  so  silent? 
What  do  you  say  ?     Why  don't  you  speak  ?" 

"  I  am  slowly  recovering  from  my  shock," 
said  the  Colonel.  "  So  Darrell  shirks  the 
CRISIS,  and  has  not  even  hinted  a  preference 
for  Honoria,  the  very  girl  in  all  London  that 
would  have  made  him  a  safe,  rational  compan- 
ion. I  told  him  so,  and  he  never  denied  it. 
But  it  is  a  comfort  to  think  he  is  no  loss.  Old 
monster!" 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Selina,  mollified  by  so 
much  sympathy,  "I  don't  say  he  is  no  loss. 
Honestly  speaking — between  ourselves — I  think 
he  is  a  very  great  loss.  An  alliance  between 
him  and  Honoria  M'ould  have  united  all  the  Vi- 
pont  influence.  Lord  JMontfort  has  the  greatest 
confidence  in  Darrell ;  and  if  this  crisis  comes, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  Vipont  interest 
that  it  should  find  somebody  who  can  speak. 
Really,  my  dear  Colonel  Morley,  you  who  have 
s)ich  an  influence  over  this  very  odd  man 
sliould  exert  it  now.  One  must  not  be  over- 
nice  in  times  of  crisis  ;  the  country  is  at  stake, 
Cousin  Alban." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  the  Colonel;  "I 
am  quite  aware  that  an  alliance  which  would 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


207 


secure  Darrell's  talents  to  the  House  of  Vipont, 
and  the  House  of  Vipont  to  Darrell's  talents, 
would — but  'tis  no  use  talking,  we  must  not  sac- 
rifice Honoria  even  on  the  altar  of  her  country's 
interest  I" 

"  Sacrifice !  Xonsense !  The  man  is  not 
young,  certainly ;  but  then,  what  a  grand  creat- 
ure— and  so  clever!" 

"Clever — yes!  But  that  was  your  very  ob- 
jection to  him  five  minutes  ago." 

"I  forgot  the  crisis.  One  don't  want  clever 
men  every  day,  bat  there  are  days  when  one 
does  want  them !" 

"I  envy  you  that  aphorism.  But  from  what 
you  now  imply,  I  fear  that  Honoria  may  have 
allowed  her  thoughts  to  settle  upon  what  may 
never  take  place;  and,  if  so,  she  may  fret." 

*'  Fret  I  a  daughter  of  mine  fret  I — and  of  all 
my  daughters,  Honoria !  A  girl  of  the  best-dis- 
ciplined mind  I     Fret!  what  a  word — vulgar!" 

Colonel  Morley.  "  So  it  is  ;  I  blush  for  it ; 
but  let  us  understand  each  other.  If  Dasrell 
proposed  for  Honoria,  yqn  think,  ambition  apart, 
she  would  esteem  him  sufficiently  for  a  decided 
preference." 

Ladt  Selixa.  "  If  that  be  his  doubt,  reassure 
him.  He  is  shy  ;  men  of  genius  r.re  ;  Honoria 
u-oulj  esteem  him!  Till  he  has  actually  pro- 
posed, it  would  compromise  her  to  say  more 
even  to  you." 

Colonel  Morlet.  "And  if  that  be  not  the 
doubt,  and  if  I  ascertain  that  Dan-ell  has  no 
idea  of  proposing,  Honoria  would — " 

Lady  Selina.  "  Despise  him.  Ah,  I  see  by 
your  countenance  that  you  think  I  should  pre- 
pare her.     Is  it  so,  frankly  ?" 

Colonel  MoELEY.  "  Frankly,  then.  I  think 
Guy  Darrell,  like  many  other  men,  has  been  so 
long  making  up  his  mind  to  marry  again  that 
he  has  lost  the  right  moment,  and  will  never 
find  it." 

Lady  Selina  smells  at  her  vinaigrette,  and  re- 
plies in  her  softest,  affectedest,  civilest, 'and 
crushingest  manner — 

"  Poor— DEAR— OLD  IIAN!" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Man  is  not  permitted,  with  ultimate  impunity,  to  exas- 
perate the  envies,  and  insult  the  miseries  of  those 
around  him,  by  a  systematic  perseverance  in  willful — 
Celibacy.  In  vain  may  he  scheme,  in  the  marriage 
of  injured  friends,  to  provide  arm-chairs,  and  foot- 
stools, and  prattling  babies  for  the  luxurious  delecta- 
tion of  his  indolent  age.  The  avenging  Eumenides 
(being  themselves  ancient  virgins  neglected;  shall 
humble  his  insolence,  baffle  his  projects,  and  condemn 
his  declioing  years  to  the  horrors  of  solitude— rarely 
even  wakening  his  poul  to  the  grace  of  repentance. 

The  Colonel,  before  returning  home,  dropped 
into  the  Clubs,  and  took  care  to  give  to  Darrell's 
sudden  disappearance  a  plausible  and  common- 
place construction.  The  season  was  just  over. 
Darrell  had  gone  to  the  country.  The  town 
establishment  was  broken  up,  because  the  house 
in  Carlton  Gardens  was  to  be  sold.  Darrell  did 
not  like  the  situation — found  the  air  relaxing — 
Park  Lane  or  Grosvenor  Square  were  on  higher 
ground.  Besides,  the  stair-case  was  bad  for  a 
house  of  such  pretensions — not  suited  to  large 
parties.  Next  season  Darrell  might  be  in  a 
position  when  he  would  have  to  give  large  par- 


I  ties,  etc.,  etc.     As  no  one  is  inclined  to  suppose 
that  a  man  will  retire  from  public  life  just  when 
\  he  has  a  chance  of  office,  so  the  Clubs  took 
Alban  Morley "s   remarks   unsuspiciously,    and 
;  generally  agreed  that  Darrell  showed  great  tact 
,  in  absenting  himself  from  town  during  the  tran- 
j  sition  state  of  poUtics  that  always  precedes  a 
I  CRISIS,  and  that  it  was  quite  clear  that  he  cal- 
culated on  playing  a  great  part  when  the  crisis 
■  was  over,  by  finding  his  house  had  grown  too 
,  small  for  him.     Thus  paving  the  way  to  Dar- 
rell's easy  return  to  the  world,  shouldhe  repent 
of  his  retreat  (a  chance  which  Alban  bv  no 
means  dismissed  from  his  reckoning),  the  Col- 
onel returned  home  to  find  his  nephew  George 
awaiting  him  there.     The  scholarly  clergyman 
had  ensconced  himself  in  the  back  drawing- 
room,  fitted  up  as  a  library,  and  was  making 
free  with  the  books.     "  What  have  you  there, 
George?"  asked  the  Colonel,  after  shaking  him 
by  the  hand.     "You  seemed  quite  absorbed  in 
its  contents,  and  would  not  have  noticed  mv 
presence  but  for  Gip's  bark." 

"  A  volume  of  poems  I  never  chanced  to  meet 
before.     Full  of  true  genius." 

"Bless  me,  poor  Arthur  Branthwaite's  poems. 
And  you  were  positively  reading  those — not  in- 
duced to  do  so  by  respect  for  his  father  ? — Could 
you  make  head  or  tail  of  them  ?" 

"There  is  a  class  of  poetiy  which  displeases 
middle  age  by  the  very  attributes  which  render 
it  charming  to  the  young ;  for  each  generation 
has  a  youth  with  idiosyncrasies  peculiar  to  it- 
self, and  a  peculiar  poetry  by  which  those  idio- 
syncrasies are  expressed." 

Here  George  was  beginning  to  grow  meta- 
physical, and  somewhat  German,  when  his  un- 
cle's face  assumed  an  expression  which  can  only 
be  compared  to  that  of  a  man  who  dreads  a  very 
severe  and  long  operation.  George  humanely 
hastened  to  relieve  his  mind. 

"But  I  will  not  bore  you  at  present." 
"Thank  you,"  said  the  Colonel,  brightening 
np. 

"Perhaps  you  will  lend  me  the  book.  I  am 
going  down  to  Lady  Montfort's  by-and-by,  and 
I  can  read  it  by  the  way." 

"Yes,  I  will  lend  it  to  you  till  next  season. 
Let  me  have  it  again  then,  to  put  on  the  table 
when  Frank  Vance  comes  to  breakfast  with  me. 
The  poet  was  his  brother-in-law;  and  though, 
for  that  reason,  poets  and  poetry  are  a  sore  sub- 
ject with  Frank,  yet,  the  last"  time  he  break- 
fasted here,  I  felt,  by  the  shake  of  his  hand  in 
parting,  that  he  felt  pleased  by  a  mark  of  re- 
spect to  all  that  is  left  of  poor  Arthur  Branth- 
waite.  So  you  are  going  to  Lady  Montfort? 
Ask  her  why  she  cuts  me !" 

"  My  dear  uncle  !  You  know  how  secluded 
her  life  is  at  present ;  but  she  has  charged  me 
to  assure  you  of  her  unalterable  regard  for  you : 
and  whenever  her  health  and  spirits  are  some- 
what more  recovered,  I  have  no  doubt  that  she 
will  ask  you  to  give  her  the  occasion  to  make 
that  assurance  in  person." 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Can  her  health  and 
spirits  continue  so  long  affi^cted  by  grief  for  the 
loss  of  that  distant  acquaintance  whom  the  law 
called  her  husband?" 

George.  "  She  is  very  far  from  well,  and  her 
spirits  are  certainly  much  broken.  And  now, 
uncle,  for  the  little  favor  I  came  to  ask.    Since 


208 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


you  presented  me  to  Mr.  Darrell,  he  kiudly  sent 
me  two  or  three  invitations  to  dinner,  which  my 
frequent  absence  from  town  would  not  allow  me 
to  accept.  I  ought  to  call  on  him;  and,  as  I 
feel  ashamed  not  to  have  done  so  before,  I  wish 
you  would  accompany  me  to  his  house.  One 
happy  word  from  you  would  save  me  a  relapse 
into  stutter.  When  I  want  to  apologize,  I  al- 
ways stutter." 

'•Darrell  has  left  town,"  said  the  Colonel, 
roughly;  "you  have  missed  an  opportunity  that 
will  never  occur  again.  The  most  charming 
companion ;  an  intellect  so  manly,  yet  so  sweet  I 
I  shall  never  find  such  another."  And  for  the 
first  time  in  thirty  years  a  tear  stole  to  Alban 
INIorley's  eye. 

George.  "When  did  he  leave  town?" 

Colonel  ?.Iorley.  "Three  days  ago." 

George.  "Three  days  ago  I  and  for  the  Con- 
tinent again  ?" 

Colonel  Morlet.  "No,  for  the  Hermitage. 
George,  I  have  such  a  letter  from  him!  You 
know  how  many  years  he  has  been  absent  from 
the  world.  When,  this  year,  he  reappeared,  he 
and  I  grew  more  intimate  than  we  had  ever 
been  since  we  had  left  school ;  for  though  the 
same  capital  held  us  before,  he  was  then  too 
occupied  for  much  familiarity  with  an  idle  man 
like  me.  But  just  when  I  was  intertwining  what 
is  left  of  my  life  with  the  bright  threads  of  his, 
be  snaps  the  web  asunder ;  he  quits  this  London 
world  again  ;  says  he  will  return  to  it  no  more." 

George.  "Yet  I  did  hear  that  he  proposed 
to  renew  his  parliamentary  career;  nay,  that  he 
was  about  to  form  a  second  marriage  with  Ho- 
noria  Vipont !" 

Colonel  Morlet.  "'Mere  gossij:i — not  true. 
No,  he  will  never  again  marry.  Tliree  days 
ago  I  thought  it  certain  that  he  would — certain 
that  I  should  find  for  my  old  age  a  nook  in  his 
home  —  the  easiest  chair  in  his  social  circle; 
that  my  daily  newspaper  would  have  a  fresh  in- 
terest in  the  praise  of  his  name  or  the  report 
of  his  speech ;  that  I  should  walk  proudly  into 
White's,  sure  to  hear  there  of  Guy  Darrell ; 
that  I  should  keep  from  misanthropical  rust  my 
dry  knowledge  of  life,  planning  shrewd  pane- 
gyrics to  him  of  a  young,  happy  wife,  needing 
all  his  indulgence  —  panegyrics  to  her  of  the 
high-minded,  sensitive  man,  claiming  tender 
respect  and  delicate  soothing;  that  thus,  day 
by  day,  I  should  have  made  more  pleasant  the 
home  in  which  I  should  have  planted  myself, 
and  found  in  his  children  boys  to  lecture  and 
girls  to  spoil.  Don't  be  jealous,  George.  I  like 
your  wife,  I  love  your  little  ones,  and  you  will 
have  all  I  have  to  leave.  But  to  an  old  bache- 
lor, who  would  keep  young  to  the  last,  there  is 
no  place  so  sunny  as  the  hearth  of  an  old  school- 
friend.  But  my  house  of  cards  is  blown  down 
— talk  of  it  no  more — 'tis  a  painful  subject. 
You  met  Lionel  Haughton  here  the  last  time  you 
called — how  did  you  like  him  ?" 

"Very  much,  indeed." 

"Well,  then,  since  you  can  not  call  on  Dar- 
rell, call  on  him." 

George  (with  animation).  "  It  is  just  what  I 
meant  to  do — what  is  his  address  ?" 

Colonel  Morlet.  "  There  is  his  card — take 
it.  He  was  here  last  night  to  inquire  if  I  knew 
where  Darrell  had  gone,  though  no  one  in  his 
household,  nor  I  either,  suspected  till  this  morn- 


ing that  Darrell  had  left  town  for  good.  You 
will  find  Lionel  at  home,  for  I  sent  him  word 
I  would  call.  But  really  I  am  not  up  to  it  now. 
Tell  him  from  me  that  ^Ir.  Darrell  will  not  re- 
turn to  Carlton  Gardens  this  season,  and  is  gone 
to  Fawley.  At  present  Lionel  need  not  know- 
more — you  understand  ?  And  now,  my  dear 
George,  good-day." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Each  generation  has  its  own  critical  canons  in  poeti*y  as 
well  as  in  political  creeds,  financial  systems,  or  what- 
pver  other  changeable  matters  of  taste  are  called  "Set- 
tled QLiestions"  and  "  Fixed  Opinions." 

George,  musing  'fiiuch  over  al!  that  his  un- 
cle had  said  respecting  Darrell,  took  his  way  to 
Lionel's  lodgings.  The  young  man  received 
him  with  the  cordial  greeting  due  from  Dar- 
rell's  kinsman  to  Colonel  Morley's  nephew,  but 
teippered  by  the  respect  no  less  due  to  the  dis- 
tinction and  the  calling  of  the  eloquent  preacher. 

Lionel  was  perceptibly  atT'ected  by  learning 
that  Darrell  had  thus  suddenly  returned  to  the 
gloomy  beech-woods  of  Fawley ;  and  he  evinced 
his  anxious  interest  in  his  benefactor  with  so 
much  spontaneous  tenderness  of  feeling,  that 
George,  as  if  in  sympathy,  warmed  into  the 
same  theme.  "  I  can  well  conceive,"  said  he, 
"your  aftection  for  Mr.  Darrell.  I  remember, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  how  powerfully  he  impressed 
me,  though  I  saw  but  little  of  him.  He  was 
then  in  the  zenith  of  his  career,  and  had  but 
few  moments  to  give  to  a  boy  like  me ;  but  the 
ring  of  his  voice  and  the  flash  of  his  eye  sent 
me  back  to  school,  dreaming  of  fame,  and  in- 
tent on  prizes.  I  spent  part  of  one  Easter  va- 
cation at  his  house  in  town ;  he  bade  his  son, 
who  was  my  school-fellow,  innte  me." 

Lionel.  "  You  knew  his  son  ?  How  Mr.  Dar- 
rell has  felt  that  loss  !" 

George.  "  Heaven  often  vails  its  most  provi- 
dent mercy  in  what  to  man  seems  its  sternest 
inflictions.  That  poor  boy  must  have  changed 
his  whole  nature,  if  his  life  had  not  to  a  fatlier, 
like  Mr.  Darrell,  occasioned  grief  sharper  than 
his  death." 

Lionel.  "You  amaze  me.  ilr.  DaiTcll  spoke 
of  him  as  a  boy  of  great  promise." 

George.  "  He  had  that  kind  of  energy  which 
to  a  father  conveys  the  idea  of  promise,  and 
which  might  deceive  those  older  than  himself 
—a  fine  bright-eyed  bold-tongued  boy,  with  just 
enough  awe  of  his  father  to  bridle  his  worst 
qualities  before  him." 

Lionel.  "  What  were  those?" 

George.  "  Headstrong  arrogance  —  relent- 
less cruelty.  He  had  a  pride  which  would  have 
shamed  his  father  out  of  pride,  had  Gu}'  Dar- 
rell detected  its  nature — purse  pride  I  I  re- 
member his  father  said  to  me  with  a  half-laugh, 
'  My  boy  must  not  be  galled  and  mortified  as  I 
was  every  hour  at  school — clothes  patched  and 
pockets  empty.'  And  so,  out  of  mistaken  kind- 
ness, Mr.  Darrell  ran  into  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  the  son  was  proud,  not  of  his  father's  fame, 
but  of  his  father's  money,  and  withal  not  gen- 
erous, nor  exactly  extravagant,  but  using  money 
as  power — power  that  allowed  him  to  insult  an 
equal  or  to  buy  a  slave.  In  a  word,  his  nick- 
name at  schoolwas  'Sir  Giles  Overreach.'     His 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


209 


death  was  the  result  of  his  strange  passion  for 
tonnenting  others.  He  had  a  fag  who  could 
not  swim,  and  who  had  the  greatest  terror  of 
the  M-ater ;  and  it  was  while  driving  this  child 
into  the  river  out  of  his  depth  that  cramp  ssized 
himself,  and  he  was  drowned.  Yes,  when  I 
think  what  that  boy  would  have  been  as  man, 
succeeding  to  Darrell's  wealth — and  had  Dar- 
rell  persevered  (as  he  would,  perhaps,  if  the  boy 
had  lived)  in  his  public  career — to  the  rank  and 
titles  he  would  probably  have  acquired  and  be- 
queathed— again  I  say,  in  man's  affliction  is 
often  Heaven's  mercy." 

Lionel  listened  aghast.  George  continued, 
"Would  that  I  could  speak  as  plainly  to  Mr. 
Darrell  himself!  For  we  find  constantly  in  the 
world  that  there  is  no  error  that  misleads  us  like 
the  eiTor  that  is  half  a  truth  wrenched  from  the 
other  half;  and  nowhere  is  such  an  error  so 
common  as  when  man  applies  it  to  the  judg- 
ment of  some  event  in  his  own  life,  and  sepa- 
rates calamity  from  consolation." 

Lionel.  '-True;  buy  who  could  have  the 
heart  to  tell  a  mourning  father  that  his  dead 
son  was  worthless  ?" 

George.  '*Alas,  my  young  friend,  the  preach- 
er must  sometimes  harden  his  own  heart  if  he 
would  strike  home  to  another's  soul.  But  I  am 
not  sure  that  I\Ir.  Darrell  would  need  so  cruel  a 
kindness.  I  believe  that  his  clear  intellect  must 
have  divined  some  portions  of  his  son's  nature 
which  enabled  him  to  bear  the  loss  with  forti- 
tude. And  he  did  bear  it  bravely.  But  now, 
Mr.  Haughton,  if  you  have  the  rest  of  the  day 
free,  I  am  about  to  make  you  an  unceremonious 
proposition  for  its  disposal.  A  lady  who  knew 
Mr.  Darrell  when  she  was  very  j-ouug,  has  a 
strong  desire  to  form  your  acquaintance.  She 
resides  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  a  little 
above  Twickenham.  I  have  promised  to  call  on 
her  this  evening.  Shall  we  dine  together  at 
Eichmond  ?  And  afterward  we  can  take  a  boat 
to  her  villa.'' 

Lionel  at  once  accepted,  thinking  so  little  of 
the  lady  that  he  did  not  even  ask  her  name.  He 
was  pleased  to  have  a  companion  with  whom  he 
could  talk  of  Darrell.  He  asked  but  delay  to  vrrite 
A  few  lines  of  aft'ectionate  inquiry  to  his  kinsman 
at  Fawley,  and,  while  he  wrote,  George  took  out 
Arthur  Branthwaite's  poems  and  resumed  their 
perusal.  Lionel  having  sealed  his  letter,  George 
extended  the  book  to  him.  "  Here  are  some  re- 
markable poems  by  a  brother-in-law  of  that  re- 
markable artist,  Frank  Vance."  ' 
"  Frank  Vance !  True,  he  had  a  brother-in- 
law  a  poet.  I  admire  Frank  so  much ;  and, 
though  he  professes  to  sneer  at  poetry,  he  is  so 
associated  in  my  mind  with  poetical  images 
that  I  am  prepossessed  beforehand  in  favor  of 
all  that  brings  him,  despite  himself,  in  connec- 
tion with  poetry." 

"  Tell  me,  then,"  said  George,  pointing  out 
a  passage  in  the  volume,  '"what  you  think  of  ; 
these  lines."     My  good  uncle  woiild  call  them 
gibberish.     I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  construe 
them  ;  but  when  I  was  yom-  age,  I  think  I  could  | 
— what  say  you?"  ! 

Lionel  glanced.    "  Exquisite  indeed.'  nothing  | 
can  be  clearer ;  they  express  exactly  a  sentiment 
in  myself  that  I  could  never  explain." 

"Just  so,"  said  George,  laughing.      "Youth 
has  a  sentiment  that  it  can  not  explain,  and  the 
O 


•  sentiment  is  expressed  in  a  form  of  poetrv  that 

middle  age  can  not  construe.     It  is  true  that 

poetry  of  the  grand  order  interests  equally  all 

ages ;  but  the  world  ever  throws  out  a  poetry 

not  of  the  grandest ;  not  meant  to  be  durable— 

j  not  meant  to  be  universal— but  following  the 

I  shifts  and  changes   of  human   sentiment,  and 

'  just  like  those  pretty  sun-dials  formed  by  flowers 

which  bloom  to  tell  the  hour,  open  their  buds 

to  tell  It,  and,  telling  it,  fade  themselves  from 

time. 

j      Not  listening  to  the  critic,  Lionel  continued 
I  to  read  the  poems,  exclaiming,  "How  exqui- 
site !  how  true !" 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

In  Life,  as  in  Art,  the  Beautiful  moves  in  curves. 
They  have  dined.  George  Morley  takes  the 
oars,  and  the  boat  cuts  through  the  dance  of 
waves  flushed  by  the  golden  sunset.  Beautiful 
river!  which  might  furnish  the  English  tale- 
teller with  legends  wild  as  those  culled  on  shores 
licked  by  Hydaspes,  and  sweet  as  those  which 
Cephisus  ever  blended  with  the  songs  of  night- 
ingales and  the  breath  of  violets!  But  what 
true  English  poet  ever  names  thee,  O  Father 
Thames!  without  a  melodious  tribute?  And 
what  child  ever  whiled  away  summer  noons 
along  thy  grassy  banks,  nor  hallowed  tbv  re- 
membrance among  the  fairy  days  of  hfe  ?  " 

Silently  Lionel  bent  overthe  "side  of  the  glid- 
ing boat,  his  mind  carried  back  to  the  same%oft 
stream  five  years  ago.  How  vast  a  space  in  his 
short  existence  those  five  years  seemed  to  fill  I 
And  how  far,  how  immeasurably  far  from  the 
young  man,  rich  in  the  attributes  of  wealth, 
armed  with  each  weapon  of  distinction,  seemed 
I  the  hour  when  the  boy  had  groaned  aloud, 
"  Fortune  is  so  far.  Fame  so  impossible  !"  Far- 
ther and  farther  yet  than  his  present  worldly 
station  from  his  past,  seemed  the  image  that 
had  first  called  forth  in  his  breast  the  dreamy 
sentiment,  which  the  sternest  of  us  in  after-life 
never  utterly  forget.  Passions  rage  and  vanish, 
and  when  all  their  storms  are  gone,  yea,  it  may 
be,  at  the  verge  of  the  very  grave,  we  look  back 
and  see  like  a  star  the  female  face,  even  though 
it  be  a  child's,  that  first  set  us  vaguely  wonder- 
ing at  the  charm  in  a  human  presence,  at  the 
void  in  a  smile  withdrawn  !  How  many  of  us 
could  recall  a  Beatrice  through  the  gaps  of 
ruined  hope,  seen,  as  by  the  Florentine,  on  the 
earth  a  guileless  infant,  in  the  heavens  a  spirit 
glorified!  Yes  —  Laura  was  an  affectation — 
Beatrice  a  reality  I 

George's  voice  broke  somewhat  distastefully 
on  Lionel's  reverie.  "  We  near  our  destina- 
tion, and  you  have  not  asked  me  even  the  name 
of  the  lady  to  whom  you  are  to  render  homage. 
It  is  Lady  Montfort,  widow  to  the  last  Mar- 
quis. You  have  no  doubt  heard  3Ir.  Darrell 
speak  of  her  ?" 

"Never  Mr.  Darrell — Colonel  Morley  often. 
And  in  the  world  I  have  heard  her  cited  as  per- 
haps the  handsomest,  and  certainly  the  haughti- 
est, woman  in  England." 

"  Xever  heard  Mr.  Darrell  mention  her !  that 
is  strange,  indeed,"  said  George  Morley,  catch- 
ing at  Lionel's  fii-st  words,  and  nnnoticing  his 


210 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


after  comment.  "She  was  mucli  in  his  house 
as  a  child,  shared  in  his  daughter's  education." 

"  Perhaps  for  that  very  reason  he  shuns  her 
name.  Never  but  once  did  I  liear  him  allude 
to  his  daughter;  nor  can  I  wonder  at  that,  if  it 
be  true,  as  I  have  been  told  by  people  who  seem 
to  know  very  little  of  the  particulars,  that,  while 
3'et  scarcely  out  of  the  nursery,  she  fled  from  his 
house  with  some  low  adventurer — a  Mr.  Ham- 
mond— died  abroad  the  first  year  of  that  un- 
happy marriage." 

* '  Yes,  that  is  tlie  correct  outline  of  the  story ; 
and  as  you  guess,  it  explains  why  Mr.  Darrell 
avoids  mention  of  one  whom  he  associates  with 
his  daughter's  name,  though,  if  you  desire  a 
theme  dear  to  Lady  Montfort,  you  can  select 
none  that  more  interests  her  grateful  heart  than 
praise  of  the  man  who  saved  her  mother  from 
penury,  and  secured  to  herself  the  accomplish- 
ments and  instruction  which  have  been  her  chief 
solace." 

"Chief  solace!  Was  she  not  happy  with 
Lord  Montfort?     What  sort  of  man  was  he?" 

"I  owe  to  Lord  Montfort  the  living  I  hold, 
and  I  can  remember  the  good  qualities  alone  of 
a  benefactor.  If  Lady  Montfort  was  not  happy 
with  him,  it  is  just  to  both  to  say  that  she  never 
complained.  But  there  is  much  in  Lady  Mont- 
fort's  character  which  the  Marquis  apparently 
failed  to  appreciate  ;  at  all  events,  they  had  lit- 
tle in  common,  and  what  was  called  Lady  Mont- 
fort's  haughtiness  was  perhaps  but  the  dignity 
with  which  a  woman  of  grand  nature  checks  the 
pity  that  would  debase  her — the  admiration  that 
would  sully — guards  her  own  beauty,  and  pro- 
tects her  husband's  name.  Here  we  are.  Will 
you  stay  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  boat  while  I 
go  to  prejiare  Lady  Montfort  for  your  visit  ?" 

George  leaped  ashore,  and  Lionel  remained 
under  the  covert  of  mighty  willows  that  dipped 
their  leaves  into  the  wave.  Looking  through 
the  green  interstices  of  the  foliage,  he  saw  at 
the  far  end  of  the  lawn,  on  a  curving  bank  by 
which  the  glittering  tide  shot  oblique,  a  simple 
arbor — an  arbor  like  that  from  which  he  had 
looked  upon  summer  stars  five  years  ago — not 
so  densely  covered  Avith  the  honey-suckle;  still 
the  honey-suckle,  recently  trained  there,  was  fast 
creeping  uj)  the  sides ;  and  through  the  trellis 
of  the  wood-work  and  the  leaves  of  the  flower- 
ing shrub  he  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  form 
within — the  white  robe  of  a  female  form  in  a  slow 
gentle  movement — tending,  perhaps,  the  flow- 
ers t'liat  wreathed  the  arbor.  Now  it  was  still, 
now  it  stirred  again ;  now  it  was  suddenly  lost 
to  view.  Had  the  inmate  left  tlie  arbor?  Was 
the  inmate  Lady  Montfort?  George  Morley's 
step  had  not  passed  in  that  direction. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  quiet  scene — an  unquiet  heart. 

Meanwhile,  not  far  from  the  willow-bank 
which  sheltered  Lionel,  but  far  enough  to  be 
out  of  her  sight,  and  beyond  her  hearing,  George 
Morley  found  Lady  Montfort  seated  alone.  It 
was  a  spot  on  which  Milton  might  have  placed 
the  Lady  in  "  Comus" — a  circle  of  the  smooth- 
est sward,  ringed  every  where  (except  at  one 
opening  which  left  the  glassy  river  in  full  view) 


with  thick  bosks  of  dark  evergreens,  and  shrubs 
of  livelier  verdure  ;  oak  and  chestnut  backing 
and  overhanging  all.  Flowers,  too,  raised  on 
rustic  tiers  and  stages  ;  a  tiny  fountain,  shoot- 
ing up  from  a  basin  starred  with  the  water-lily; 
a  rustic  table,  on  which  lay  books  and  the  im- 
plements of  woman's  graceful  work  ;  so  that  the 
j)lace  had  the  home-look  of  a  chamber,  and 
spoke  that  intense  love  of  the  out-door  life  which 
abounds  in  our  old  poets,  from  Chancer  down 
to  the  day  when  minstrels,  polished  into  wits, 
took  to  Wills's  Coffee-house,  and  the  lark  came 
no  more  to  bid  bards 

"  Good-morrow 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies." 

But  long  since,  thanli  Heaven,  we  have  again 
got  back  the  English  poetry  which  chimes  to 
the  babble  of  the  waters  and  the  riot  of  the 
birds ;  and  just  as  that  poetry  is  the  freshest 
which  the  out-door  life  has  the  most  nourished, 
so  I  believe  that  there  is  no  surer  sign  of  the 
rich  vitality  which  finds  its  raciest  joys  in 
sources  the  most  innocent,  than  the  childlike 
taste  for  that  same  out-door  life.  Whether 
you  take  from  fortune  the  palace  or  the  cottage, 
add  to  your  chambers  a  hall  in  the  courts  of  Na- 
ture. Let  the  earth  but  give  you  room  to  stand 
on ;  well,  look  up.  Is  it  nothing  to  have  for 
your  roof-tree — heaven  ? 

Caroline  Montfort  (be  her  titles  dropped)  is 
changed  since  we  last  saw  her.  The  beauty  is 
not  less  in  degree,  but  it  has  gained  in  one  at- 
tribute, lost  in  another ;  it  commands  less,  it 
touches  more.  Still  in  deep  mourning,  the 
sombre  dress  throws  a  paler  shade  over  the 
cheek.  The  eyes,  more  sunken  beneath  the 
brow,  appear  larger,  softer.  There  is  that  ex- 
pression of  fatigue  which  cither  accompanies 
impaired  health  or  succeeds  to  mental  struggle 
and  disquietude.  But  the  coldness  or  pride  of 
mien  which  was  peculiar  to  Cai'oline,  as  a  wife, 
is  gone — as  if  in  widowhood  it  was  no  longer 
needed.  A  something  like  humility  pre»'ailed 
over  the  look  and  the  bearing  which  had  been 
so  tranquilly  majestic.  As  at  the  api)roach  of 
her  cousin  she  started  from  her  seat,  there  was 
a  nervous  tremor  in  her  eagerness  ;  a  rush  of 
color  to  the  cheeks  ;  an  anxious  quivering  of 
the  lip  ;  a  flutter  in  the  tones  of  the  sweet,  low 
voice.     "  Well,  George." 

"  Mr.  Darrell  is  not  in  London ;  he  went  to 
Fawley  three  days  ago ;  at  least  he  is  thei'e 
now.  I  have  this  from  my  uncle,  to  whom  he 
wrote  ;  and  whom  his  departure  has  vexed  and 
saddened." 

"  Three  days  ago !  It  must  have  been  he, 
then  !  I  was  not  deceived,"  murmured  Caro- 
line, and  her  eyes  wandered  round. 

"There  is  no  truth  in  the  report  you  heard 
that  he  was  to  marry  Honoria  Vipont.  i\Iy  un- 
cle thinks  he  will  never  marry  again,  and  im- 
plies that  he  has  resumed  his  solitary  life  at 
Fawley  with  a  resolve  to  quit  it  no  more." 

Lady  Montfort  listened  silently,  bending  her 
face  over  the  fountain,  and  dropping  amidst  its 
playful  spray  the  leaves  of  a  rose  which  she  had 
abstractedly  plucked  as  George  was  speaking. 

"  I  have,  therefore,  fulfilled  your  commission 
so  far,"  renewed  George  Morley.  "I  have  as- 
certained that  Mr.  Darrell  is  alive,  and  doubt- 
less well ;  so  that  it  could  not  have  been  his 
ghost  that  startled  you  amidst  yonder  thicket. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


211 


But  I  have  done  more  :  I  have  forestalled  the  ized  away.  And  I  apprehend  that  it  is  this  ex 
wish  you  expressed  to  become  acquainted  with  alting  or  etherealizing  attribute  of  beautv  to 
young  Haughton ;  and  your  object  in  postpon-  which  all  poets,  all  writers  who  would  poetize 
ing  the  accomplishment  of  that  wish  while  Mr.  the  realities  of  life,  have  unconsciouslv  render 
Darrell  himself  was  in  town  having  ceased  with  ed  homage,  in  the  rank  to  which  theV  elevate 
Mr.  Barren's  departure,  I  have  ventured  to  bring  what,  stripped  of  such  attribute  would  be  but  a 
the  young  man  with  me.  He  is  in  the  boat  yon-  gaudy  idol  of  painted  clav.  If  from  the  loftiest 
der.  AVill  you  receive  him  ?  Or— but,  my  dear  epic  to  the  tritest  novel  a"  heroine  is  often  little 
cousin,  are  you  not  too  umvell  to-day  ?  What  more  than  a  name  to  which  we  are  called  upon 
is  the  matter?  Oh,  I  can  easily  make  an  ex-  to  bow,  as  to  a  svmbol  representing  beauty- 
case  for  you  to  Haughton.  I  will  run  and  do  and  if  we  ourselve's  (be  we  ever  so  indifferent 
so."  ,      ,    ^"  °"^  common  life  to  fair  faces)  feel  that  in 

"^o,  George,  no.  I  am  as  well  as  usual.  I  art,  at  least,  imagination  needs  an  iman-e  of  the 
will  see  Mr.  Haughton.  All  that  you  have  Beautiful— if,  in  a  word,  both  poet  and  reader 
heard  of  him,  and  have  told  me,  interests  me  here  would  not  be  left  excuseless  it  is  because 
so  much  in  his  fovor;  and  besides—"  She  did  in  our  inmost  hearts  there  is  a  sentiment  which 
not  finish  the  sentence ;  but,  led  away  by  some  links  the  ideal  of  beautv  with  the  Super=ensual 
other  thought,  asked,  "  Sasa  you  no  news  of  Wouldst  thou,  for  instance,  form  -^ome  vague 
our  missing  friend  ?"  :  conception  of  the  shape  worn  bv  a  pure  <=oul 

"^one  as  yet;  but  in  a  few  days  I  shall  re-  released?  wouldst  thou  give  to  it  the  hkeness 
new  my  search.  Now,  then,  I  will  go  for  of  an  ugly  hag?  or  wouldst  thou  not  ransack 
Haughton.'  :  all  thy  remembrances,  all  thv  conceptions  of 

"  Uo  so ;  and,  George,  when  you  have  pre-  forms  most  beauteous,  to  clothe  the  holv  imac^e  » 
sented  him  to  me,  will  you  kindly  join  that  dear.  Do  so  :  now  bring  it  thus  robed  with  'the  rich- 
anxious  child  yonder  ?  She  is  in  the  new  ar-  est  graces  before  thv  mind's  eve.  Well  <=eest 
bor.  or  near  it— her  favorite  spot.  You  must  !  thou  now  the  excuse"for  poets  in  the  rank  they 
sustain  her  spirits  and  give  her  hope.  You  can  ;  give  to  Beauty  ?  Seest  thou  now  how  hi^rh 
not  guess  how  eagerly  she  looks  forward  to  your  ;  from  the  realm  of  the  senses  soars  the  mvsten- 
visits,  and  how  gratefully  she  relies  on  your  ex-  !  ous  Archetype  ?  Without  the  idea  of  beauty, 
eitions."  I  couldst  thou  conceive  a  form  in  which  to  clothe 

George   shook   his  head  half-despondently,  !  a  soul  that  has  entered  heaven  ? 
and  saying,  briefly,  "  My  exertions  have  estab- 
lished no  claim  to  her  gratitude  as  yet,"  went 
quickly  back  for  Lionel. 

CHAPTER  XXIV, 

I  Agreeable  surprises  are  the  perquisites  of  youth. 
j  If  the  beauty  of  Lady  Montfort's  countenance 
'  took  Lionel  by  surprise,  still  more  might  he  won- 
der at  the  winning  kindness  of  her  address — a 
kindness  of  look,  manner,  voice,  which  seemed 
to  welcome  him  not  as  a  chance  acquaintance 
but  as  a  new-found  relation.  The  first  few 
sentences,  in  giving  them  a  subject  of  common 
interest,  introduced  into  their  converse  a  sort 
of  confiding  household  familiarity.  For  Lionel, 
ascribing  Lady  Montfort's  gracious  reception  to 
her  early  recollections  of  his  kinsman,  began  at 
once  to  speak  of  Guy  Darrell ;  and  in  a  little 
time  they  were  walking  over  the  turf,  or  through 
the  winding  alleys  of  the  garden,  linking  talk  to 
the  same  theme,  she  by  question,  he  by  answer 
— he,  charmed  to  expatiate — she,  pleased  to  list- 
en— and  liking  each  other  more  and  more,  as 
she  recognized  in  all  he  said  a  bright  young 
heart,  overflowing  with  grateful  and  proud  af- 
fection, and  as  he  felt  instinctively  that  he  was 
with  one  who  sympathized  in  his  enthusiasm — 
one  who  had  known  the  great  man  in  his  busy 
day,  ere  the  rush  of  his  career  had  paused,  whose 
childhood  had  lent  a  smile  to  the  great  man's 
home  before  childhood  and  smile  had  left  it. 

As  they  thus  conversed,  Lionel  now  and  then, 
in  the  turns  of  their  walk,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
George  Morley  in  the  distance,  walking  also 
side  by  side  with  some  young  companion,  and 
ever  as  he  caught  that  glimpse  a  strange  restless 
curiosity  shot  across  his  mind,  and  distracted  it 
even  from  praise  of  Guy  Darrell.  Who  could 
that  be  with  George  ?  Was  it  a  relation  of  Lady 
Montfort's?  The  figure  was  not  in  moumint^; 
its  shape  seemed  slight  and  youthful — now  it  pass- 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

Something,  oa  an  old  siibject,  which  has  never  been 
said  before. 

Although  Lionel  was  prepared  to  see  a  verv 
handsome  woman  in  Lady  Montfort,  the  beauty 
of  her  countenance  took  him  by  surprise.  No 
preparation  by  the  eulogies  of  description  can 
lessen  the  effect  which  the  first  sight  of  a  beau- 
tiful object  produces  upon  a  mind  to  which  re- 
finement of  idea  gives  an  accurate  and  quick 
comprehension  of  beauty.  Be  it  a  work  of  art, 
a  scene  in  nature,  or,  'rarest  of  all,  a  human 
face  dinne,  a  beauty  never  before  beheld  strikes 
us  with  hidden  pleasure,  like  a  burst  of  light ; 
and  it  is  a  pleasure  that  elevates.  The  imagi- 
nation feels  itself  richer  by  a  new  idea  of  ex- 
cellence; for  not  only  is  real  beautv  whollv 
original,  baring  no  prototype,  but  its  immediat'e 
influence  is  spiritual.  It' may  seem  strange — I 
appeal  to  every  observant  artist  if  the  assertion 
be  not  true — but  the  first  sight  of  the  most  per- 
fect order  of  female  beauty,  rather  than  court- 
ing, rebukes  and  strikes  back  every  grosser  in- 
stinct that  would  alloy  admiration.  "  There  must 
be  some  meanness  and  blemish  in  the  beauty 
which  the  sensualist  no  sooner  beholds  than  he 
covets.  In  the  higher  incarnation  of  the  ab- 
stract idea  which  runs  through  all  our  notions 
of  moral  good  and  celestial  purity — even  if  the 
moment  the  eye  sees  the  heart  loves  the  image 
— the  love  has  in  it  something  of  the  reverence 
which  it  was  said  the  charms  of  Virtue  would 
produce  could  her  form  be  made  visible ;  nor 
could  mere  human  love  obtrude  itself  till  the 
sweet  awe  of  the  first  effect  had  been  familiar- 


212 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


es  bv  that  acacia-tree — standing  for  a  moment 
apart  and  distinct  from  George's  shadow,  but  its 
own  outline  dim  in  the  deepening  twilight — now 
it  has  passed  on,  lost  among  the  laurels. 

Lionel  and  Lady  IMontfort  now  came  before 
the  windows  of  the  house,  which  was  not  large 
for  the  rank  of  the  owner,  but  commodious,  with 
no  pretense  to  architectural  beauty — dark-red 
brick,  a  centuiy  and  a  half  old — irregular;  jut- 
ting forth  here,  receding  there,  so  as  to  produce 
that  depth  of  light  and  shadow  which  lends  a 
certain  picturesque  charm  even  to  the  least  or- 
nate buildings — a  charm  to  which  the  Gothic 
architecture  owes  half  its  beauty.  Jessamine, 
roses,  woodbine,  ivy,  trained  up  the  angles  and 
between  the  windows.  Altogether  the  house 
had  that  air  of  home  which  had  been  wanting 
to  the  regal  formality  of  Montfort  Court.  One 
of  the  windows,  raised  above  the  ground  by  a 
short  winding  stair,  stood  open.  Lights  had 
seemingly  just  been  brought  into  the  room  with- 
in, and  Lionel's  eye  was  caught  by  the  gleam. 

Lady  Montfort  turned  up  the  stair,  and  Lionel 
followed  her  into  the  apartment.  A  harp  stood 
at  one  corner — not  far  from  it  the  piano  and 
music-stand.  On  one  of  the  tables  there  were 
the  implements  of  drawing — a  sketch  in  water- 
colors  half  finished. 

"Our  work-room,"  said  Lady  Montfort,  with 
a  warm  cheerful  smile,  and  yet  Lionel  could  see 
that  tears  were  in  her  eyes — "mine  and  my  dear 
pupil's.  Yes,  that  harp  is  hers.  Is  he  still  fond 
of  music — I  mean  Mr.  Darrell  ?" 

"  Yes,  though  he  does  not  care  for  it  in  crowds ; 
but  he  can  listen  for  hours  to  Fairthorn's  lute. 
You  remember  Mr.  Fairthorn  ?" 

' '  Yes,  I  remember  him,"  answered  Lady  Mont- 
fort, softly.  "  ilr.  Darrell,  then,  likes  his  music 
still  ?" 

Lionel  here  uttered  an  exclamation  of  more 
than  surprise.  He  had  turned  to  examine  the 
water-color  sketch — a  rustic  inn,  a  honey-suckle 
arbor,  a  river  in  front,  a  boat  yonder— just  be- 
gun. 

"I  know  the  spot!"  he  cried.  "Did  you 
make  the  sketch  of  it?" 

"  I  ?  no ;  it  is  hers — my  pupil's — my  adopted 
child's." 

Lionel's  dark  eyes  turned  to  Lady  Montfort's 
wistfully,  inquiringly ;  they  asked  what  his  lips 
could  not  presume  to  ask.  "  Your  adopted  child 
— what  is  she? — who?" 

As  if  answering  to  the  eyes,  Lady  Montfort 
said — 

"Wait  here  a  moment ;  I  wiU  go  for  her." 
She  left  him,  descended  the  stairs  into  the 
garden,  joined  George  Morley  and  his  compan- 
ion ;  took  aside  the  former,  whispered  him,  then 
drawing  the  arm  of  tlie  latter  within  her  own, 
led  her  back  into  the  room,  while  George  Mor- 
ley remained  in  the  garden,  throwing  himself  on 
a  "bench,  and  gazing  on  the  stars  as  they  now 
came  forth,  fast  and  frequent,  though  one  by  one. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"Qaem  Fors  dienim  cnnque  dabit 
Lucro  appone." — Hoeat. 

Lionel  stood,  expectant,  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  as  the  two  female  forms  entered  the 


lights  were  full  upon  their  faces.  That  younger 
face — it  is  she — it  is  she,  the  unforgotten — the 
long  lost.  Instinctively,  as  if  no  years  had  rolled 
between — as  if  she  were  still  the  little  child,  he 
the  boy  who  had  coveted  such  a  sister — he  sprang 
forward  and  opened  his  arms,  and  as  suddenly 
halted,  dropped  the  arms  to  his  side,  blushing, 
confused,  abashed.  She  I  that  vagrant  child  I — 
she  1  that  form  so  elegant — that  great  peeress's 
pupil — adopted  daughter,  she!  the  poor  wander- 
ing Sophy !     She  '. — impossible ! 

But  her  eyes,  at  first  downcast,  are  now  fixed 
on  him.  She,  too,  starts — not  forward,  but  in 
recoil ;  she,  too,  raises  her  arms,  not  to  open, 
but  to  press  them  to  her  breast ;  and  she,  too, 
as  suddenly  checks  anJmpulse,  and  stands,  like 
him,  blushing,  confused,  abashed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Caroline  Montfort,  drawing  Sophy 
nearer  to  her  breast — "  yes,  you  will  both  forgive 
me  for  the  surprise.  Yes,  you  do  see  before  you, 
grown  up  to  become  the  pride  of  those  who  cher- 
ish her,  that  Sophy  who — " 

"  Sophy  I"  cried  Lionel,  advancing ;  "  it  is 
so,  then !  I  knew  vou  were  no  stroller's  grand- 
child." 

Sophy  drew  up — "I  am,  I  am  his  grandchild, 
and  as  proud  to  be  so  as  I  was  then." 

"  Pardon  me,  pardon  me  ;  I  meant  to  say  that 
he  too  was  not  what  he  seemed.  You  forgive 
me,"  extending  his  hand,  and  Sophy's  soft  hand 
fell  into  his  forgivingly. 

'•But  he  lives?  is  well?  is  here?  is — " 
Sophy  burst  into  tears,  and  Lady  Montfort 
made  a  sign  to  Lionel  to  go  into  the  garden 
and  leave  them.  Eeluctantly  and  dizzily,  as 
one  in  a  dream,  he  obeyed,  leaving  the  vagrant's 
grandchild  to  be  soothed  in  the  fostering  arms 
of  her  whom,  an  hour  or  two  ago,  he  knew  but 
by  the  titles  of  her  rank  and  the  reputation  of 
her  pride. 

It  was  not  many  minutes  before  Lady  3Iont- 
fort  rejoined  him. 

"You  touched  unawares,"  said  she,  "npon 
the  poor  child's  most  anxious  cause  of  sorrow. 
Her  grandfather,  for  whom  h<2r  affection  is  so 
sensitively  keen,  has  disappeared.  I  will  speak 
of  that  later;  and  if  you  wish,  you  shall  be  ta- 
ken into  our  consultations.  But — "  she  paused, 
looked  into  his  face — open,  loyal  face,  face  of 
gentleman — with  heart  of  man  in  its  eyes,  soul 
of  man  on  its  brow ; — face  formed  to  look  up  to 
the  stars  which  now  lighted  it — and  laying  her 
hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder,  resumed  with  hesi- 
tating voice — "But  I  feel  like  a  culprit  in  ask- 
ing you  what,  nevertheless,  I  must  ask,  as  an 
imperative  condition,  if  your  visits  here  are  to 
be  renewed — if  your  intimacy  here  is  to  be  es- 
tablished. And  unless  you  comply  with  that 
condition,  come  no  more ;  we  can  not  confide  in 
each  other." 

"Oh,  Lady  ilontfort,  impose  any  condition. 
I  promise  beforehand." 

"  Not  beforehand.  The  condition  is  this :  in- 
violable secrecy.  You  will  not  mention  to  any 
one  your  visits  here ;  your  introduction  to  me ; 
your  discovery  of  the  stroller's  grandchild  in  my 
adopted  daughter." 

"Not  to  Mr.  Darrell?" 
"To  him  least  of  all;  but  this  I  add,  it  is  for 
IMr.  Darrell's  sake  that  I  insist  on  such  conceal- 
ment ;  and  I  trust  the  concealment  will  not  be 
long  protracted." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


213 


'•For  "Mr.  Darrell's  sake!" 

"  For  the  sake  of  his  happiness,"  cried  Lady 
Montfort,  clasping  her  hands.  "My  debt  to  him 
is  larger  far  than  yours ;  and  in  thus  appealing 
to  you,  I  scheme  to  pay  back  a  part  of  it.  Do 
you  trust  me  ?" 

"Ido,  Ido." 

And  from  that  evening  Lionel  Haughton  be- 
came the  constant  visitor  in  that  house. 

Two  or  three  days  afterward  Colonel  Morley, 
quitting  England  for  a  German  Spa  at  which 
he  annually  recruited  himself  for  a  few  weeks, 


relieved  Lionel  from  the  embarrassment  of  any 
questions  which  that  shrewd  observer  might 
otherwise  have  addressed  to  him.  London  it- 
self was  now  empty.  Lionel  found  a  quiet  lodg- 
ing in  the  vicinity  of  Twickenham.  And  when 
his  foot  passed  along  the  shady  lane  through 
yon  wicket  gate  into  that  region  of  turf  and 
flowers,  he  felt  as  might  have  felt  that  famous 
Minstrel  of  Ercildoun,  when,  blessed  with  the 
privilege  to  enter  Fairyland  at  will,  the  Rhymer 
stole  to  the  grassy  hill-side,  and  murmured  the 
spell  that  unlocks  the  gates  of  Oberon. 


BOOK    VIII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  A  little  fire  burns  up  a  great  deal  of  corn." 

Old  Pkoveeb. 

Gut  Darrell  resumed  the  thread  of  solitary 
life  at  Fawley  with  a  calm  whicli  was  deeper  in 
its  gloom  than  it  had  been  before.  The  experi- 
ment of  return  to  the  social  world  had  failed. 
The  resolutions  which  had  induced  the  experi- 
ment were  finally  renounced.  Five  years  near- 
er to  death,  and  the  last  hope  that  had  flitted 
across  the  narrowing  desponding  passage  to  the 
grave,  fallen  like  a  faithless  torch  from  his  own 
hand,  and  trodden  out  by  his  own  foot. 

It  was  peculiarly  in  the  nature  of  Darrell  to 
connect  his  objects  with  posterity — to  regard 
eminence  in  the  Present  but  as  a  beacon-height 
from  which  to  pass  on  to  the  Future  the  name 
he  had  taken  from  the  Past.  All  his  early  am- 
bition, sacrificing  pleasure  to  toil,  had  placed 
its  goal  at  a  distance,  remote  from  the  huzzas 
of  bystanders ;  and  Ambition  halted  now,  baftled 
and  despairing.  Ciiildless,  his  line  would  per- 
ish with  himself — himself,  who  had  so  vaunted 
its  restoration  in  the  land !  His  genius  was 
childless  also — it  would  leave  behind  it  no  off- 
spring of  the  brain.  By  toil  he  had  amassed 
ample  wealth;  by  talent  he  had  achieved  a 
splendid  reputation.  But  the  reputation  was  as 
perishable  as  the  wealth.  Let  a  half  century 
pass  over  his  tomb,  and  nothing  would  be  left  to 
speak  of  the  successful  lawyer,  the  ai)plauded 
orator,  save  traditional  anecdotes,  a  laudatory 
notice  in  contemporaneous  memoirs — perhaps, 
at  most,  quotations  of  eloquent  sentences  lav- 
ished on  forgotten  cases  and  obsolete  debates — 
shreds  and  fragments  of  a  great  intellect,  which 
another  half-century  would  sink  without  a  bub- 
ble into  the  depths  of  Time.*  He  had  enacted 
no  laws — he  had  administered  no  state — he  had 
composed  no  Iwoks.  Like  the  figure  on  a  clock, 
which  adorns  the  case  and  has  no  connection 
with  the  movement,  he,  so  prominent  an  orna- 

*  It  is  so  with  many  a  Pollio  of  the  Bar  and  Senate. 
Fifty  years  hence,  and  how  faint  upon  tlie  page  of  Han- 
sard will  be  the  vestiges  of  Follett!  No  printer's  tvpe 
can  record  his  decorous  grace — the  persuasion  of  his'sil- 
very  tongue.  Fifty  years  hence,  even  Plunkett,  weight- 
iest speaker,  on  his  own  subject,  in  the  assembly  that 
contained  a  Canning  and  a  Brougham,  will  be  a  myth  to 
our  grandsons. 


ment  to  Time,  had  no  part  in  its  works.  Re- 
moved, the  eye  would  miss  him  for  a  while ;  but 
a  nation's  literature  or  history  was  the  same, 
whether  with  him  or  without.  Some  with  a 
tithe  of  his  abilities  have  the  luck  to  fasten  their 
names  to  things  that  endure;  they  have  been 
responsible  for  measures  they  did  not  invent, 
and  which,  for  good  or  evil,  influence  long  gen- 
erations. They  have  written  volumes  out  of 
which  a  couplet  of  verse,  a  period  in  prose,  may 
cling  to  the  rock  of  ages  as  a  shell  that  survives 
a  deluge.  But  the  orator,  whose  efl'ects  are  im- 
mediate—who enthralls  his  audience  in  propor- 
tion as  be  nicks  the  hour — who,  were  he  speak- 
ing like  Burke  what,  apart  from  the  subject- 
matter,  closet  students  would  praise,  must,  like 
Burke,  thin  his  audience,  and  exchange  present 
oratorical  success  for  ultimate  intellectual  re- 
nown— a  man,  in  short,  whose  oratory  is  em- 
phatically that  of  the  Debater,  is,  like  an  act- 
or, rewarded  with  a  loud  applause  and  a  com- 
plete oblivion.  Waife  on  the  village  stage  might 
win  applause  no  less  loud,  followed  by  oblivion 
not  more  complete. 

Darrell  was  not  blind  to  the  brevity  of  his 
fame.  In  his  previous  seclusion  he  had  been 
resigned  to  that  conviction — now  it  saddened 
him.  Then,  unconfessed  by  himself,  the  idea 
that  he  might  yet  reappear  in  active  life,  and 
do  something  which  the  world  would  not  willing- 
ly let  die,  had  softened  the  face  of  that  tranquil 
Nature  from  which  he  must  soon  now  pass  out 
of  reach  and  sight.  On  the  tree  of  Time  he 
was  a  leaf  already  sere  upon  the  bough — not  an 
inscription  graven  into  the  rind. 

Ever  slow  to  yield  to  weak  regrets — ever  seek- 
ing to  combat  his  own  enemies  within — Darrell 
said  to  himself  one  right,  while  Fairthorn's  flute 
was  breathing  an  air  of  romance  through  the 
melancholy  walls,  "  Is  it  too  late  yet  to  employ 
this  still  busy  brain  upon  works  that  will  live 
when  I  am  dust,  and  make  Posterity  supply  the 
heir  that  fails  to  my  house  ?" 

He  shut  himself  up  with  immortal  authors — 
he  meditated  on  the  choice  of  a  theme ;  his 
knowledge  was  wide,  his  taste  refined  ; — words ! 
— fie  could  not  want  words!  Why  should  he 
not  write?  Alas!  why  indeed? — He  who  has 
never  been  a  writer  in  his  youth,  can  no  more 
be  a  writer  in  his  age  than  he  can  be  a  painter 


21-t 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


— a  musician.  What !  not  write  a  book  ?  Oh 
yes — as  he  may  paint  a  picture  or  set  a  song. 
But  a  writer,  in  tlie  emphatic  sense  of  the  word 
— a  writer  as  Darrell  was  an  orator — Oh  no  I 
And,  least  of  all,  will  he  be  a  writer  if  he  has 
been  an  orator  by  impulse  and  habit — an  orator 
too  happily  gifted  to  require,  and  too  laborious- 
ly occuijied  to  resort  to,  the  tedious  aids  of  writ- 
ten jjreparation — an  orator  as  modern  life  forms 
orators — not,  of  course,  an  orator  like  those  of 
the  classic  world,  who  elaborated  sentences  be- 
fore delivery,  and  who,  after  delivery,  polished 
each  extemporaneous  interlude  into  rhetorical  i 
exactitude  and  musical  perfection.  And  how 
narrow  the  range  of  compositions  to  a  man  bur-  '. 
dened  already  by  a  grave  reputation!  He  can 
not  have  the  self-abandonment — he  can  not  ven- 
ture the  headlong  charge  —  with  which  Youth  ; 
flings  the  reins  to  genius,  and  dashes  into  the  , 
ranks  of  Fame.  Few  and  austere  his  themes — 
fastidious  and  hesitating  his  taste.  Restricted 
are  the  movements  of  him  who  walks  for  the  , 
first  time  into  the  Forum  of  Letters  with  the  ', 
purple  hem  on  his  senatorial  toga.  Guy  Dar-  i 
rell,  at  his  age,  entering  among  authors  as  a  nov- 
ice I — lie,  the  great  lawyer,  to  whom  attorneys  i 
would  have  sent  no  briefs  had  he  been  suspected  ' 
of  coquetting  with  a  muse — he,  the  great  orator, 
who  had  electrified  audiences  in  proportion  to  ■ 
the  sudden  effects  which  distinguish  oral  inspi- 
ration from  written  eloquence — he  achieve  now, 
in  an  art  which  his  whole  life  had  neglected, 
any  success  commensurate  to  his  contempora- 
neous repute;  —  how  unlikely!  But  a  success 
which  should  outlive  that  repute,  win  the  "ev- 
erlasting inheritance"  which  could  alone  have 
nerved  him  to  adequate  effort — how  impossible ! 
He  could  not  himself  comprehend  why,  never  at 
a  loss  for  language  felicitously  apposite  or  richly 
ornate  when  it  had  but  to  flow  from  his  thought 
to  his  tongue,  nor  wanting  ease,  even  eloquence, 
in  epistolary  correspondence  confidentially  fa- 
miliar—  he  should  find  words  fail  ideas,  and 
ideas  fail  words,  the  moment  his  pen  became  a 
wand  that  conjured  up  the  Ghost  of  the  dread 
Public  1  The  more  copious  his  thoughts,  the 
more  embarrassing  their  selection  ;  the  more 
exquisite  his  ])erce]jtion  of  excellence  in  others, 
the  more  timidly  frigid  his  efforts  at  faultless 
style.  It  would  be  the  same  with  the  most 
skillful  author,  if  the  Ghost  of  the  Public  had 
not  long  since  ceased  to  haunt  him.  While  he 
writes,  the  true  author's  solitude  is  absolute  or 
peojjled  at  his  will.  But  take  an  audience  from 
an  orator,  what  is  he?  He  commands  the  liv- 
ing Public — the  Ghost  of  the  Public  awes  him- 
self. 

"  Surely  once,"  sighed  Darrell,  as  he  gave  his 
blurred  pages  to  the  flames — "  surely  once  I  had 
some  pittance  of  the  author's  talent,  and  have 
spent  it  upon  lawsuits." 

Tiie  author's  talent,  no  doubt,  Guy  Dairell 
once  liad  —  the  author's  temperament,  never. 
What  is  the  autlnjr's  temperament?  Too  long 
a  task  to  define.  But  without  it  a  man  may 
write  a  clever  book,  a  useful  book,  a  book  that 
may  live  a  year,  ten  years,  fifty  years.  He  will 
not  stand  out  to  distant  ages  a  representative  of 
the  age  that  rather  lived  in  him  than  he  in  it. 
The  author's  temperament  is  that  which  makes 
him  an  integral,  earnest,  original  unity,  distinct 
from  all  before  and  all  that  may  succeed  him. 


And  as  a  Father  of  the  Church  has  said  that 
the  consciousness  of  individual  being  is  the 
sign  of  immortality,  not  granted  to  the  inferior 
creatures — so  it  is  in  this  individual  tempera- 
ment one  and  indivisible  ;  and  in  the  intense 
conviction  of  it,  more  than  in  all  the  works  it 
may  throw  off",  that  the  author  becomes  immor- 
tal. Nay,  his  works  may  perish  like  those  of 
Orpheus  or  Pythagoras  ;*  but  he  himself,  in  his 
name,  in  the  footprint  of  his  being,  remains, 
like  Orpheus  or  Pythagoras,  undestroyed,  in- 
destructible. 

Resigning  literature,  the  Solitary  returned  to 
science.  There  he  was  more  at  home.  He  had 
cultivated  science,  in  his  dazzling  academical 
career,  with  ardor  and  success  ;  he  had  renewed 
the  study,  on  his  first Tetirement  to  Fawley,  as  a 
distraction  from  tormenting  memories  or  unex- 
tinguished passions.  He  now  for  the  first  time 
regarded  the  absorbing  abstruse  occupation  as 
a  possible  source  of  fame.  To  be  one  in  the 
starry  procession  of  those  sons  of  light  who  have 
solved  a  new  law  in  the  statute-book  of  heaven ! 
Surely  a  grand  ambition,  not  unbecoming  to  his 
years  and  station,  and  pleasant  in  its  labors  to 
a  man  who  loved  Nature's  outward  scenery  with 
poetic  passion,  and  had  studied  her  inward  mys- 
teries with  a  sage's  minute  research.  Science 
needs  not  the  author's  art — she  rejects  its  graces 
— she  recoils  with  a  shudder  from  its  fancies. 
But  Science  requires  in  the  mind  of  the  dis- 
coverer a  limpid  calm.  The  lightnings  that  re- 
veal Diespiter  must  flash  in  serene  skies.  No 
clouds  store  that  thunder — 

"Quo  bruta  tellus,  et  vaga  flumina. 
Quo  Styx,  et  invisi  lionida  Ta:nari 
Sedes,  Atlanteusque  finis 
Coucutitur!" 

So  long  as  you  take  science  only  as  a  distrac- 
tion, science  will  not  lead  you  to  discovery. 
And  from  some  cause  or  other,  Guy  Darrell  was 
more  unquiet  and  perturbed  in  his  present  than 
in  his  past  seclusion.  Science  this  time  failed 
even  to  distract.  In  the  midst  of  august  medi- 
tations— of  close  experiment  —  some  haunting 
angry  thought  from  the  far  world  passed  with 
rude  shadow  between  Intellect  and  Truth — the 
heart  eclipsed  the  mind.  The  fact  is,  that  Dar- 
rell's  genius  was  essentially  formed  for  Action. 
His  was  the  true  orator's  temperament,  with  the 
qualities  that  belong  to  it — the  grasp  of  affairs 
— the  comprehension  of  men  and  states  —  the 
constructive,  administrative  faculties.  In  such 
career,  and  in  such  career  alone,  could  he  have 
developed  all  his  powers,  and  achieved  an  im- 
perishable name.  Gradually  as  science  lost  its 
interest,  he  retreated  from  all  his  former  occupa- 
tions, and  would  wander  for  long  hours  over  the 
wild  unpopulated  landscapes  round  him.  As  if 
it  were  his  object  to  fatigue  the  body,  and  in 
that  fatigue  tire  out  the  restless  brain,  he  would 
make  his  gun  the  excuse  for  rambles  from  sun- 
rise to  twilight  over  the  manors  he  had  pur- 
chased years  ago,  lying  many  miles  oft'  from 
Fawley.  There  are  times  when  a  man  who  has 
passed  his  life  in  cultivating  his  mind  finds  that 
the  more  he  can  make  the  physical  existence 
predominate,  the  more  he  can  lower  himself  to 
the  rude  vigor  of  his  game-keeper  or  his  day- 

*  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  works  ascribed  to 
Orplieus  or  Pythagoras  aie  generally  allowed  not  to  be 
genuine. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


215 


laborer  —  why,  the  more  he  can  harden  his 
nerves  to  support  the  weight  of  his  reflections. 

In  tliese  rambles  he  was  not  always  alone. 
Fairthorn  contrived  to  insinuate  himself  much 
more  than  formerly  into  his  master's  habitual 
companionsliip.  The  faithful  fellow  had  missed 
Darrell  so  sorely  in  that  long  unbroken  absence 
of  five  years,  that  on  recovering  him,  Fairthorn 
seemed  resolved  to  make  np  for  lost  time.  De- 
parting from  his  own  habits,  he  would,  there- 
fore, lie  in  wait  for  Guy  Darrell — creeping  out 
of  a,  bramble  or  bush,  like  a  familiar  sprite  ;  and 
was  no  longer  to  be  awed  away  liy  a  curt  sylla- 
ble or  a  contracted  brow.  And  Darrell,  at  llrst 
submitting  reluctantly,  and  out  of  compassionate 
kindness,  to  the  flute-player's  obtrusive  society, 
became  by  degrees  to  welcome  and  relax  in  it. 
Fairthorn  knew  the  great  secrets  of  bis  life.  To 
Fairthorn  alone  on  all  earth  could  he  speak  with- 
out reserve  of  one  name  and  of  one  sorrow. 
Speaking  to  Fairthorn  was  like  talking  to  him- 
self, or  to  his  pointers,  or  to  his  favorite  doe, 
upon  which  last  he  bestowed  a  new  collar,  with 
an  inscriijtion  that  im];iied  more  of  the  true 
cause  that  had  driven  him  a  second  time  to  the 
shades  of  Fawley  than  he  would  have  let  out  to 
Alban  ilorley  or  even  to  Lionel  Ilaughton.  Al- 
ban  was  too  old  for  that  confidence — Lionel 
much  too  young.  But  the  j\lusician,  like  Art 
itself,  was  of  no  age  ;  and  iT"  ever  the  gloomy 
master  unbent  his  outward  moodiness  and  secret 
spleen  in  any  approach  to  gaycty,  it  was  in  a 
sort  of  saturnine  playfulness  to  this  grotesque, 
grown-u])  infant.  They  cheered  each  other,  and 
the}'  teased  each  other.  Stalking  side  by  side 
over  the  ridged  fallows,  Darrell  would  some- 
times jiour  furtli  his  whole  soul,  as  a  ];oet  does 
to  his  muse ;  and  at  Fairthorn's  abrupt  inter- 
ruption or  rejoinder,  turn  round  on  him  with 
fierce  objurgation  or  withering  sarcasm,  or  what 
the  flute-player  abhorred  more  than  all  else,  a 
truculent  cpiotation  from  Horace,  which  drove 
Fairthorn  a\\ay  into  some  vanishing  covert  or 
hollow,  out  of  which  Darrell  had  to  entice  him, 
sure  that,  in  return,  Fairthorn  would  take  a 
sly  occasion  to  send  into  his  side  a  vindictive 
prickle.  But  as  the  two  came  home  in  the 
starlight,  the  dogs  dead  beat  and  poor  Fair- 
thorn too — ten  to  one  but  what  the  musician 
was  leaning  all  his  weight  on  his  master's  nerv- 
ous arm,  and  Darrell  was  looking  with  tender 
kindness  in  the  face  of  the  some  oxe  left  to 
lean  upon  liim  still. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  sitting  together  in 
the  library,  the  two  hermits,  each  in  his  corner, 
and  after  a  long  silence,  the  flute-player  said 
abruptly — 

"I  have  been  thinking — " 

"  Thinking !"  quoth  Darrell,  with  his  mechan- 
ical irony  ;  •'  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Try  not  to 
do  so  again." 

Fairthorn.  "  Your  poor  dear  father — " 

Darrell,  wincing,  startled,  and  expectant  of  a 
prickle — ''Eh?  my  father — " 

Fairthorn.  "  Was  a  great  antiquary.  How 
it  would  have  pleased  him  could  he  have  left  a 
fine  collection  of  antiquities  as  an  heir-loom  to 
the  nation  ! — his  name  thus  preserved  for  ages, 
and  connected  with  the  studies  of  his  life. 
There  are  the  Elgin  Marbles.  The  parson  was 
talking  to  me  yesterday  of  a  new  Vernon  Gal- 
lery ;  why  not  in  the  British  Museum  an  ever- 


lasting Darrell  Room  ?  Plenty  to  stock  it 
mouldering  yonder  in  the  chambers  which  you 
will  never  finish." 

"  My  dear  Dick,"  cried  Darrell,  starting  up, 
'•give  me  your  hand.  What  a  brilliant  thought! 
I  could  do  nothing  else  to  preserve  my  dear 
father's  name.  Eureka!  You  are  right.  Set 
the  carpenters  at  work  to-morrow.  Remove  the 
boards ;  open  the  chambers ;  we  will  inspect 
their  stores,  and  select  what  would  worthily 
furnish  '  A  Darrell  Room.'  Perish  Guy  Darrell 
the  lawyer!  Philip  Darrell  the  antiquary  at 
least  shall  live !" 

It  is  marvelous  with  what  charm  Fairthorn's 
lucky  idea  seized  upon  Darrell's  mind.  The 
whole  of  the  next  day  he  spent  in  the  forlorn 
skeleton  of  the  unfinished  mansion  slowlv  de- 
caying beside  his  small  and  homely  dwelling. 
The  pictures,  many  of  which  were  the  rarest 
originals  in  early  Flemish  and  Italian  art,  were 
dusted  with  tender  care,  and  hung  from  hasty 
nails  upon  the  bare  ghastly  walls.  Delicate 
ivory  carvings,  wrought  by  the  matchless  band 
of  Cellini — early  Florentine  bronzes — jiriccless 
specimens  of  Raft'aelle  ware  and  Venetian  glass 
— the  precious  trifles,  in  short,  which  the  col- 
lector of  medieval  curiosities  amasses  for  his 
heirs  to  disperse  among  the  palaces  of  kings 
and  the  cabinets  of  nations  —  were  dragged 
again  to  unfamiliar  light.  The  invaded  sepul- 
chral building  seemed  a  veiy  Pomjieii  of  the 
Cinque  Cento.  To  examine,  arrange,  method- 
ize, select  for  national  jiurposes,  such  miscella- 
neous treasures,  would  be  the  work  of  weeks. 
For  easier  access,  Darrell  caused  a  slight  hasty 
l^assagc  to  be  thrown  over  the  gap  between  the 
two  edifices.  It  ran  from  the  room  niched  into 
the  gables  of  the  old  house,  which,  originally 
fitted  up  for  scientific  studies,  now  became  his 
habitual  apartment,  into  the  largest  of  the  un- 
comjdeted  chambers  which  had  been  designed 
for  the  grand  reception-gallery  of  the  new  build- 
ing. Into  the  pompous  gallery  thus  made  con- 
tiguous to  his  monk-like  cell,  he  gradually  gath- 
ered the  choicest  specimens  of  his  collection. 
The  damps  were  expelled  by  fires  on  grateless 
hearth-stones  ;  sunshine  admitted  from  windows 
now  for  the  first  time  exchanging  boards  for 
glass ;  rough  iron  sconces,  made  at  the  nearest 
forge,  were  thrust  into  the  walls,  and  sometimes 
lighted  at  night — Darrell  and  Fairthorn  walking 
arm  in  arm  along  the  unpolished  floors,  in  com- 
pany with  Holbein's  Nobles,  Pemgino's  Virgins. 
Some  of  that  high-bred  company  displaced  and 
banished  the  next  day,  as  repeated  inspection 
made  the  taste  more  rigidly  exclusive.  Darrell 
had  found  object,  amusement,  occupation — 
frivolous  if  compared  with  those  lenses,  and 
glasses,  and  algebraical  scrawls  which  had  once 
whiled  lonely  hours  in  the  attic-room  liard  by ; 
but  not  frivolous  even  to  the  judgment  of  the 
austerest  sage,  if  that  sage  had  not  reasoned 
away  his  heart.  For  here  it  was  not  Darrell's 
taste  that  was  delighted  ;  it  was  Darrell's  heart 
that,  ever  hungry,  had  found  food.  His  heart 
was  connecting  those  long-neglected  memorials 
of  an  ambition  baffled  and  relinquished — here 
with  a  nation,  there  with  his  father's  grave! 
How  Ins  eyes  sparkled !  how  his  lip  smiled ! 
Nobody  would  have  guessed  it — none  of  us 
know  each  other ;  least  of  all  do  we  know  the 
interior  being  of  those  whom  we  estimate  bj 


216 

public  repute ;  but  what  a  world  of  simple,  fond 
affection,  lay  coiled  and  wasted  in  that  proud 
man's  solitarv  breast  I 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  learned  compute  that  seven  hundred  and  seven  mill- 
ions of  millions  of  vibrations  have  penetrated  the  eve 
before  the  eye  can  distinguish  the  tints  of  a  violet. 
What  philosophy  can  calculate  the  vibrations  of  the 
heart  before  it  cau  distinguish  the  colors  of  love? 

While  Guy  Darrell  thus  passed  his  hours 
within  the  unfinished  fragments  of  a  dwelling 
builded  for  posterity,  and  among  the  still  relics 
of  remote  generations,  Love  and  Youth  were 
weaving  their  warm  eternal  idyll  on  the  sunny 
lawns  by  the  gliding  river. 

There  they  are,  Love  and  Youth,  Lionel  and 
Sophv,  in  the  arbor  round  which  her  slight  hands 
have  "twined  the  honey-suckle,  fond  imitation  of 
that  bower  endeared  by  the  memory  of  her 
earliest  holiday — she  seated  coyly,  he  on  the 
ground  at  her  feet,  as  when  Titania  had  watch- 
ed his  sleep.  He  has  been  reading  to  her,  the 
book  has  fallen  from  his  hand.  What  book? 
That  volume  of  poems  so  unintelligibly  obscure 
to  all  but  the  dreaming  young,  who  are  so  un- 
intelligibly obscure  to  themselves.  But  to  the 
merit  of  those  poems,  I  doubt  if  even  George 
did  justice.  It  is  not  true,  I  believe,  that  they 
are  not  durable.  Some  day  or  other,  when  all 
the  jargon  so  feelingly  denounced  by  Colonel 
Morley,  about  "ffisthetics,"  and  "objective," 
and  '-subjective,"  has  gone  to  its  long  home, 
some  critic  who  can  write  English  will  probably 
bring  that  poor  little  volume  fairly  before  the 
public ;  and,  with  all  its  manifold  faults,  it  will 
take  a  place  in  the  affections,  not  of  one  single 
generation  of  the  young,  but — everlasting,  ever- 
dreaming,  ever-growing  yottth.  But  you  and  I, 
reader,  have  no  other  interest  in  these  poems, 
except  this  —  that  they  were  written  by  the 
brother-iu-law  of  that  whimsical,  miserly  Frank 
Vance,  who  perhaps,  but  for  such  a  brother-in- 
law,  would  never  have  gone  through  the  labor 
by  which  he  has  cultivated  the  genius  that 
achieved  his  fame  ;  and  if  he  had  not  cultivated 
that  genius,  he  might  never  have  known  Lionel; 
and  if  he  had  never  known  Lionel,  Lionel  might 
never  perhaps  have  gone  to  the  Surrey  village, 
in  which  he  saw  the  Fhenomenon  :  And  to  push 
farther  still  that  A'oltaireian  philosophy  of  ifs — 
if  eitiier  Lionel  or  Frank  Vance  had  not  been 
30  intimately  associated  in  the  minds  of  Sophy 
and  Lionel  with  the  golden  holiday  on  the  beau- 
tiful river,  Sophy  and  Lionel  might  not  have 
thought  so  much  of  those  poems;  and  if  they 
had  not  thought  so  much  of  those  poems,  there 
mi^ht  not  have  been  between  them  that  link  of 
poetry  without  which  the  love  of  two  young 
people  is  a  sentiment,  always  verj*  pretty,  it  is 
true,  but  much  too  commonplace  to  deserve 
special  commemoration  in  a  work  so  uncom- 
monly long  as  this  is  likely  to  be.  And  thus  it 
i-i  clear  that  Frank  Vance  is  not  a  superfluous 
and  episodical  personage  among  the  characters 
of  this  history;  but,  however  indirectly,  still 
essentially,  one  of  those  beings  without  whom 
the  author  must  have  given  a  very  different  an- 
swer to  the  question,  "What  will  he  do  with 
it?" 


Return  we  to  Lionel  and  Sophy.  The  poems 
have  brought  their  hearts  nearer  and  nearer  to- 
gether. And  when  the  book  fell  from  Lionel's 
hand,  Sophy  knew  that  his  eyes  were  on  her 
face,  and  her  own  eyes  looked  away.  And  the 
silence  was  so  deep  and  so  sweet !  Neither  had 
vet  said  to  the  other  a  word  of  love.  And  in 
"that  silence  both  felt  that  they  loved  and  were 
beloved.  Sophy  I  how  childlike  she  looked  still! 
How  little  she  is  changed '. — except  that  the 
soft  blue  eyes  are  far  more  pensive,  and  that 
her  merry  "laugh  is  now  never  heard.  In  that 
luxtirious  home,  fostered  with  the  tenderest  care 
by  its  charming  owner,  the  romance  of  her 
childhood  realized,  and  Lionel  by  her  side,  she 
misses  the  old  crippled_vagrant.  And  therefore 
it  is  that  her  mern.*  laugh  is  no  longer  heard! 
"Ahl"  said  Lionel,  softly  breaking  the  pause 
at  length,  "  Do  not  turn  your  eyes  from  me,  or 
I  shall  think  that  there  are  tears  in  them!" 
Sophy's  breast  heaved,  but  her  eyes  were  averted 
still.  Lionel  rose  gently,  and  came  to  the  other 
side  of  her  quiet  form.  "Fie!  there  are  tears, 
and  you  would  hide  them  from  me.  Ungrate- 
ful !" 

Sophy  loolied  at  him  now  with  candid,  inex- 
pressible, guileless  affection  in  those  swimming 
eyes,  and  said,  with  touching  sweetness,  "L^n- 
grateful !  Should  I  not  be  so  if  I  were  gay  and 
happy?" 

Atid  in  self-reproach  for  not  being  sufficient- 
ly unhappy  while  that  young  consoler  was  by 
lier  side,  she  too  rose,  left  the  arbor,  and  look- 
ed wistfully  along  the  river.  George  INIorley 
was  expected ;  he  might  bring  tidings  of  the 
absent.  And  now  while  Lionel,  rejoining  her, 
exerts  all  his  eloquence  to  allay  her  anxiety  and 
encourage  her  hopes,  and  while  they  thus,  in 
that  divmest  stage  of  love,  ere  the  tongue  re- 
peats what  the  eyes  have  told,  glide  along — 
here  in  sunlight  by  lingering  flowers — there  in 
shadow  under  mournful  willows,  whose  leaves 
are  ever  the  latest  to  fall,  let  us  explain  by  what 
links  of  circumstance  Sophy  became  the  great 
ladv's  guest,  and  Waife  once  more  a  homeless 
wanderer. 


CILSJPTER  in. 

Comprising  many  needful  explanations  illustrative  of 
wise  saws ;  as,  ior  example.  '•  He  that  hath  an  ill  name 
is  half  hanged."  '-He  that  hath  been  bitten  by  a  ser- 
pent is  afraid  of  a  rope."  "He  that  looks  for  a  star 
puts  out  his  candles;"  and,  "  AYhen  God  wills,  all 
winds  bring  rain." 

The  reader  has  been  already  made  aware 
how,  by  an  impulse  of  womanhood  and  human- 
ity, Arabella  Crane  had  been  converted  from  a 
persecuting  into  a  tutelary  agent  in  the  desti- 
nies of  Waife  and  Sophy.'  That  revolution  in 
her  moral  being  dated  from  the  evening  on 
which  she  had  sought  the  cripple's  retreat  to 
warn  him  of  Jasper's  designs.  We  have  seen 
by  what  stratagem  she  had  made  it  appear  that 
Waife  and  his  grandchild  had  sailed  beyond 
the  reach  of  molestation ;  with  what  liberality 
she  had  advanced  the  money  that  freed  Sophy 
from  the  manager's  claim:  and  how  consider- 
ately she  had  empowered  her  agent  to  give  the 
reference  which  secured  to  Waife  the  asylum 
in  which  we  last  beheld  him.  In  a  few  stern 
sentences  she  had  acquainted  Waife  ^^•ith  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


211 


fearless,  inflexible  resolve  to  associate  her  fate 
henceforth  with  the  life  of  his  lawless  son ;  and, 
by  rendering  abortive  all  his  evil  projects  of 
plunder,  to  compel  him  at  last  to  depend  upon 
her  for  an  existence  neither  unsafe  nor  sordid, 
provided  only  that  it  were  not  dishonest.  The 
moment  that  she  revealed  that  design,  Waife's 
trust  in  her  was  won.  His  own  heart  enabled 
him  to  comprehend  the  effect  produced  upon  a 
character  othenvise  unamiable  and  rugged,  by  the 
grandeur  of  self-immolation  and  the  absorption 
of  one  devoted  heroic  thought.  In  the  strength 
and  bitterness  of  passion  which  thus  pledged 
her  existence  to  redeem  another's,  he  obtained 
the  liey  to  her  vehement  and  jealous  nature ; 
saw  why  she  had  been  so  cruel  to  the  child  of  a 
rival;  why  she  had  conceived  compassion  for 
that  child  in  proportion  as  the  father's  unnatu- 
ral indifference  had  quenched  the  anger  of  her 
own  self-love ;  and,  above  all,  why,  as  the  idea 
of  reclaiming  and  appropriating  solely  to  her- 
self the  man  who,  for  good  or  for  evil,  had  grown 
into  the  all-predominant  object  of  her  life,  gain- 
ed more  and  more  the  mastery  over  her  mind, 
it  expelled  the  lesser  and  the  baser  passions, 
and  the  old  mean  revenge  against  an  infant 
faded  away  before  the  light  of  that  awakening 
conscience,  which  is  often  rekindled  from  ashes 
by  the  sparks  of  a  single  better  and  worthier 
thought.  And,  in  the  resolute  design  to  re- 
claim Jasper  Losely,  Arabella  came  at  once  to 
a  ground  in  common  with  his  father,  with  his 
child.  Oh  what,  too,  would  the  old  man  owe 
to  her,  what  would  be  his  gratitude,  his  joy,  if 
she  not  only  guarded  his  spotless  Sophy,  but 
saved  from  the  bottomless  abyss  his  guilty  son  I 
Thus  when  Arabella  Crane  had,  nearly  five 
years  before,  sought  Waife's  discovered  hiding- 
place,  near  the  old  blood-stained  tower,  mutual 
interests  and  sympathies  had  formed  between 
them  a  bond  of  alliance  not  the  less  strong  be- 
cause rather  tacitly  acknowledged  and  openly 
expressed.  Arabella  had  xvritten  to  Waife  from 
the  Continent,  for  the  first  half  year,  pretty  oft- 
en, and  somewhat  sanguinely,  as  to  tlie  chance 
of  Losely's  ultimate  reformation.  Then  the  in- 
tenals  of  silence  became  gradually  more  pro- 
longed, and  the  letters  more  brief.  But  still, 
whether  from  the  wish  not  unnecessarily  to  pain 
the  old  man,  or,  as  would  be  more  natural  to 
her  character,  which,  even  in  its  best  aspects, 
was  not  gentle,  from  a  proud  dislike  to  confess 
failure,  she  said  nothing  of  the  evil  courses  | 
which  Jasper  had  renewed.  Evidently  she  was 
always  near  him.  Evidently,  by  some  means  ' 
or  another,  his  life,  furtive  and  dark,  was  ever ; 
under  the  glare  of  her  watchful  eyes.  j 

Meanwhile,  Sophy  had  been  presented  to  Car-  ' 
oline  Montfort.     As  Waife  had  so  fondly  antici-  ! 
pated,  the  lone  childless  lady  had  taken  with 
kindness   and  interest  to   the  fair  motherless  '' 
child.     Left  to  herself  often  for  months  togeth-  t 
er  in  the  grand  forlorn  house,  Caroline  "soon  | 
found  an  object  to  her  pensive  walks  in  the  ' 
basket-maker's  cottage.    Sophy's  charming  face 
and  charming  ways  stole  more  and  more  into 
affections  which  were  denied  all  nourishment 
at  home.     She  entered  into  Waife's  desire  to 
improve,  by  education,  so  exquisite  a  nature ;  i 
and.  familiarity  growing  by  degrees,  Sophy  was  I 
at  length  coaxed  up  to  the  great  house ;  and ; 
during  the  hours  which  Waife  devoted  to  his  j 


rambles  (for  even  in  his  settled  industry  he 
could  not  conquer  his  vagrant  tastes,  but  wouJd 
weave  his  reeds  or  osiers  as  he  sauntered  through 
solitudes  of  turf  or  wood),  became  the  docile, 
delighted  pupil  in  the  simple  chintz  room  which 
Lady  ]Montfort  had  reclaimed  from  the  desert 
of  her  surrounding  palace.  Lady  Montfort  was 
not  of  a  curious  turn  of  mind;  profoundly  in- 
different even  to  the  gossip  of  drawing-rooms, 
she  had  no  rankling  desire  to  know  the  secrets 
of  tillage  hearth-stones.  Little  acquainted  even 
with  the  great  world — scarcely  at  all  with  any 
world  below  that  in  which  she  had  her  being, 
save  as  she  approached  humble  sorrows  bv  del- 
icate charity — the  contrast  between  Waife's  call- 
ing and  his  conversation  roused  in  her  no  vi<Ti- 
lant  suspicions.  A  man  of  some  education,  and 
bom  in  a  rank  that  touched  upon  the  order  of 
gentlemen,  but  of  no  practical  or  professional 
culture — with  whimsical  tastes  —  with  roving, 
eccentric  habits  —  had,  in  the  course  of  hfe, 
picked  up  much  harmless  Misdom,  but,  perhaps 
from  want  of  worldly  prudence,  failed  of  for- 
tune. Contented  with  an  obscure  retreat  and 
an  humble  livelihood,  he  might  yet  naturally  be 
loth  to  confide  to  others  the  painful  history  of 
a  descent  in  life.  He  might  have  relations  in 
a  higher  sphere,  whom  the  confession  would 
shame;  he  might  be  silent  in  the  manly  pride 
which  shrinks  from  alms  and  pity  and  a  tale  of 
fall.  Nay,  grant  the  worst — grant  that  Waife 
had  suffered  in  repute  as  well  as  fortune — grant 
that  his  character  had  been  tarnished  by  some 
plausible  circumstantial  evidences  which  he 
could  not  explain  away  to  the  satisfaction  of 
friends  or  the  acquittal  of  a  short-sighted  world 
— had  there  not  been,  were  there  not  always, 
many  innocent  men  similarly  afflicted?  And 
who  could  hear  Waife  talk,  or  look  on  his  arch 
smile,  and  not  feel  that  he  was  innocent?  So, 
at  least,  thought  Caroline  Montfort.  Natural- 
ly;  for  if  in  her  essentially  womanlike  charac- 
ter there  was  one  all-penading  and  all-predomi- 
nant attribute,  it  was  Pixr.  If  Fate  had  placed 
her  under  circumstances  fitted  to  ripen  into  ge- 
nial development  all  her  exquisite  forces  of 
soul,  her  true  post  in  this  life  would  have  been 
that  of  the  Soother.  What  a  child  to  some 
grief-worn  father!  "^Tiat  a  wife  to  some  toil- 
ing, aspiring,  sensitive  man  of  genius  I  What 
a  mother  to  some  suffering  child !  It  seemed 
as  if  it  were  necessar}-  to  her  to  have  something 
to  compassionate  and  foster.  She  was  sad  when 
there  was  no  one  to  comfort ;  but  her  smile  was 
like  a  simbeam  from  Eden  when  it  chanced  on 
a  sorrow  it  could  brighten  away.  Out  of  this 
ver}-  sympathy  came  her  faults — faults  of  rea- 
soning and  judgment.  Prudent  in  her  own  chill- 
ing path  through  what  the  world  calls  tempta- 
tions, because  so  ineffably  pure  —  because,  to 
Fashion's  light  tempters,  her  very  thought  was 
as  closed,  as 

"Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave," 
was  the  ear  of  Sabrina  to  the  comrades  of  Co- 
mus — yet  place  before  her  some  gentle  scheme 
that  seemed  fraught  with  a  blessing  for  others, 
and  straightway  her  fancy  embraced  it,  prudence 
faded — she  saw  not  the  obstacles,  weighed  not 
the  chances  against  it.  Charity  to  her  did  not 
come  alone,  but  with  its  sister  twins,  Hope  and 
Faith. 

Thus,  benignly  for  the  old  man  and  the  fair 


JIS 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


child,  years  rolled  on  till  Lord  Montfort's  sud- 
den deatli,  and  liis  widow  was  called  iijjon  to 
exclianse  Montfort  Court  (which  passed  to  the 
new  heir)  for  the  distant  jointure  house  ofTwick- 
cnham.  By  this  time  she  had  s^wn  so  at- 
tached to  Sophy,  and  Sophy  so  gratefully  fond 
of  her,  that  she  projiosed  to  Waife  to  take  his 
sweet  {grandchild  as  her  permanent  companion, 
complete  her  education,  and  assure  her  future. 
This  had  heen  tlie  old  man's  cherished  day- 
dream ;  but  he  had  not  contemplated  its  reali- 
zation until  he  himself  were  in  the  grave.  He 
turued  pale,  he  staggered,  when  the  proposal 
which  would  separate  him  from  his  grandchild 
was  first  brought  before  him.  But  he  recovered 
ere  Lady  Montfort  could  be  aware  of  the  acutc- 
ness  of  the  pang  she  inflicted,  and  accepted  the 
generous  offer  with  warm  protestations  of  joy 
and  gratitude.  But  Sophy !  Sophy  consent  to 
leave  her  grandfather  afar  and  aged  in  his  soli- 
tary cottage  !  Little  did  either  of  them  know 
Sophy,  with  her  soft  heart  and  determined  soul, 
if  they  supposed  such  egotism  possible  in  her. 
Waife  insisted — Waife  was  angry — Waife  was 
authoritative — Waife  was  imploring — Waife  was 
pathetic — all  in  vain!  But  to  close  every  argu- 
ment, the  girl  went  boldly  to  Lady  Montfort, 
and  said,  "  If  I  left  him,  his  heart  would  break 
— never  ask  it."  Lady  Montfort  kissed  Sophy 
tenderly  as  mother  ever  kissed  a  child  for  some 
sweet  loving  trait  of  a  noble  nature,  and  said 
simply,  "But  he  shall  not  be  left — he  shall 
come  too." 

She  offered  Waife  rooms  in  her  Twickenham 
house — she  wished  to  collect  books — he  should 
be  librarian.  The  old  man  shivered  and  re- 
fused— refused  firmly.  He  had  made  a  vow 
not  to  be  a  guest  in  any  house.  Finally,  the 
matter  was  compromised ;  Waife  would  remove 
to  the  neighborhood  of  Twickenham  ;  there  hire 
a  cottage;  there  jjly  his  art;  and  Sophy,  living 
with  him,  should  spend  a  part  of  each  day  Avith 
Lady  Montfort  as  now. 

So  it  was  resolved.  Waife  consented  to  oc- 
cupy a  small  house  on  the  verge  of  the  grounds 
belonging  to  the  jointure  villa,  on  the  condition 
of  paying  rent  for  it.  And  George  Morley  in- 
sisted on  the  jjrivilege  of  preparing  that  house 
for  his  old  teacher's  reception,  leaving  it  sitnple 
and  rustic  to  outward  appearance,  but  fitting  its 
pleasant  chambers  with  all  that  his  knowledge 
of  the  old  man's  tastes  and  habits  suggested  for 
comfort  or  humble  luxury ;  a  room  for  Sophy, 
hung  with  the  prettiest  paper,  all  butterflies  and 
flowers,  commanding  a  view  of  the  river.  Waife, 
desjiite  his  proud  scruples,  could  not  refuse  stich 
gifts  from  a  man  whose  fortune  and  career  had 
been  secured  by  his  artful  lessons.  Indeed,  he 
had  already  i)ermitted  George  to  assist,  though 
not  largely,  his  own  efforts  to  rej)ay  the  £100 
advanced  by  Mrs.  Crane.  The  years  he  had 
devoted  to  a  craft  which  his  ingenuity  made 
lucrative,  had  just  enabled  the  basket-maker, 
with  his  pupil's  aid,  to  clear  off  tliat  debt  by 
installments.  lie  had  the  satisfaction  of  think- 
ing that  it  was  iiis  industry  which  had  rejjlaced 
the  sum  to  which  his  grandchild  owed  her  re- 
lease from  the  execrable  Kugge. 

Lady  Montfort's  departure  (which  preceded 
Waife's  by  some  weeks)  was  more  mourned  by 
the  poor  in  her  immediate  neighborhood  than 
by  the  wealthier  families  wlio  composed  what  a 


province  calls  its  society,  and  the  gloom  which 
that  event  cast  over  the  little  village  round  the 
kingly  mansion  was  increased  when  Waife  and 
his  grandchild  left. 

For  the  last  three  years,  emboldened  by  Lady 
Montfort's  protection,  and  the  conviction  that 
he  was  no  longer  pursued  or  spied,  the  old 
man  had  relaxed  his  earlier  reserved  and  se- 
cluded habits.  Constitutionally  sociable,  he  had 
made  acquaintance  with  his  humbler  neighbors ; 
lounged  by  their  cottage  palings  in  his  rambles 
down  the  lanes  ;  diverted  their  children  with 
Sir  Isaac's  tricks,  or  regaled  them  with  nuts  an4 
apples  from  his  little  orchard;  given  to  the  more 
diligent  laborers  many  a  valuable  hint  how  to 
eke  out  the  daily  wage  with  garden  ])roduce,  or 
bees,  or  poultry  ;  doctored  farmers'  cows ;  and 
even  won  the  heart  of  the  stud  groom  by  a 
mysterious  sedative  ball,  which  had  reduced  to 
serene  docility  a  highly  nervous  and  hitherto 
unmanageable  four-year-old.  Sophy  liad  been 
no  less  popular.  No  one  grudged  her  the  favor 
of  Lady  Montfort  —  no  one  wondered  at  it. 
They  were  loved  and  honored.  Perhaps  the 
hajipiest  years  Waife  had  known  since  his  young 
wife  left  the  earth  were  passed  in  the  hamlet 
which  he  fancied  her  shade  haunted ;  for  was 
it  not  there— there,  in  that  cottage — there,  in 
sight  of  those  green  osiers,  that  her  first  modest 
virgin  replies  to  his  letters  of  love  and  hope  had 
soothed  his  confinement  and  animated  him — 
till  then  little  fond  of  sedentary  toils — to  the 
very  industry  which,  learned  in  sport,  now  gave' 
subsistence,  and  secured  a  home.  To  that  home 
]jersecution  had  not  come — gossip  had  not  jiryed 
into  its  calm  seclusion  —  even  chance,  when 
threatening  disclosure,  had  seemed  to  jjass  by 
innocuous.  For  once — a  year  or  so  before  he 
left — an  incident  had  occurred  which  alarmed 
him  at  the  time,  but  led  to  no  annoying  results. 
The  banks  of  the  great  sheet  of  water  in  Montfort 
Park  were  occasionally  made  the  scene  of  rural 
picnics  by  the  families  of  neighboring  farmers 
and  tradesmen.  One  day  Waife,  while  care- 
lessly fashioning  his  baskets  on  his  favorite  spot, 
was  recognized  by  a  party  on  the  opposite  mar- 
gin to  whom  he  liimself  had  paid  no  attention. 
He  was  told  the  next  day  by  the  landlady  of  the 
village  inn,  the  main  chimney  of  which  he  had 
undertaken  to  cure  of  smoking,  that  a  "  lady" 
in  the  picnic  symposium  of  the  day  before  had 
asked  many  questions  about  him  and  his  grand- 
child, and  had  seemed  pleased  to  hear  they 
were  both  so  comfortably  settled.  The  "  lady" 
had  been  accompanied  by  another  "lady,"  and 
by  two  or  three  yoinig  gentlemen.  They  had 
arrived  in  a  "'buss,"  which  they  had  hired  for 
the  occasion.  They  had  come  from  Humbers- 
ton  the  day  after  those  famous  races  which  an- 
nually filled  Humberston  with  strangers — the 
time  of  year  in  which  Eugge's  grand  theatrical 
exhibition  delighted  that  ancient  town.  From 
the  description  of  the  two  ladies,  Waife  sus- 
pected that  they  belonged  to  Rugge's  comjiany. 
But  they  had  not  claimed  Waife  as  a  cidcvant 
comrade  ;  they  had  not  spoken  of  Sophy  as  the 
Phenomenon  or  the  Fugitive.  No  molestation 
followed  this  event ;  and,  after  all,  the  Re- 
morseless Baron  had  no  longer  any  claim  to 
the  Persecuted  Bandit  or  to  Juliet  Araminta. 

But  the  ex-comedian  is  gone  from  the  osiers 
— the  hamlet.     He  is  in  his  new  retreat  by  the 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


219 


lordly  river — within  an  hour  of  tlie  smoke  and 
roar  of  tumultuous  London.  lie  tries  to  look 
cheerful  and  happy,  but  his  repose  is  troubled — 
his  heart  is  anxious.  Ever  since  Sophy,  on  his 
account,  refused  the  offer  which  would  have 
transfei-red  her,  not  for  a  few  daily  hours,  but 
for  liabitual  life,  from  a  basket-maker's  roof  to 
all  the  elegances  and  refinements  of  a  sphere 
in  which,  if  freed  from  him,  her  charms  and 
virtues  might  win  her  some  such  alliance  as 
seemed  impossible  while  he  was  thus  dragginc; 
her  do^^Ti  to  his  own  le^el — ever  since  that  day 
the  old  man  had  said  to  himself,  "I  live  too 
long."  While  .S'ojihy  was  by  his  side,  he  ap- 
peared busy  at  his  work  and  merry  in  his  hu- 
mor ;  the  moment  she  left  him  for  Lady  Mont- 
fort's  house  tlue  work  dropped  from  his  hands, 
and  he  sank  into  moody  thought. 

Waife  had  written  to  ]Mrs.  Crane  (her  address 
then  was  at  Paris)  on  removing  to  Twickenham, 
and  begged  her  to  warn  him,  should  Jasper  med- 
itate a  return  to  England,  by  a  letter  directed  to 
him  at  the  General  Post-office,  London.  Despite 
his  later  trust  in  Mrs.  Crane,  lie  did  not  deem 
it  safe  to  confide  to  her  Lady  Montfort's  ofier  to 
Sophy,  or  the  affectionate  nature  of  that  lady's 
intimacy  v.ith  the  girl  now  gi-o\vn  into  woman- 
hood. Witli  that  insight  into  the  human  heart, 
w^hich  was  in  him  not  so  habitually  clear  and 
steadfast  as  to  be  always  useful,  but  at  times 
singularly  if  erratically  lucid,  he  could  not  feel 
assured  that  Arabella  Crane's  ancient  hate  to 
Sophy  (which,  lessening  in  proportion  to  the 
girl's  destitution,  had  only  ceased  when  the 
stern  woman  felt,  with  a  sentiment  borderin,:i 
on  revenge,  that  it  was  to  her  that  Sojihy  owed 
an  asylum  obscure  and  humble)  might  not  re- 
vive, if  she  learned  that  the  cliild  of  a  detested 
rival  was  raised  above  the  necessity  of  her  pro- 
tection, and  brought  within  view  of  that  station 
so  much  loftier  than  her  own,  from  which  she 
had  once  rejoiced  to  knovv-  that  the  offspring  of 
a  marriage  which  had  darkened  her  life  was  ex- 
cluded. For  indeed  it  had  been  only  on  Waife 's 
promise  that  he  would  not  repeat  the  attempt 
that  had  proved  so  abortive,  to  enforce  Sophy's 
claim  on  Guy  Darrell,  that  Arabella  Crane  had 
in  the  first  instance  resigned  the  child  to  his 
care.  His  care — his — an  attainted  outcast!  As 
long  as  Arabella  Crane  could  see  in  Sophy  but 
an  object  of  compassion  she  might  haughtily 
protect  her;  but  could  Sophy  become  an  object 
of  envy,  would  that  protection  last  ?  Ko,  he  did 
not  venture  to  confide  in  Mrs.  Crane  further 
than  to  say  that  he  and  Sophy  had  removed 
from  Montfort  village  to  the  vicinity  of  London. 
Time  enough  to  say  more  when  ]\Irs.  Crane  re- 
turned to  England;  and  then  not  by  letter,  but 
in  personal  interview. 

Once  a  month  the  old  man  went  to  London 
to  inquire  at  the  General  Post-ofnce  for  any  com- 
munications his  correspondent  might  there  ad- 
dress to  him.  Only  once,  however,  had  he  heard 
from  Mrs.  Crane  since  the  announcement  of  his 
migration,  and  her  note  of  reply  was  extremely 
brief,  until  in  the  fatal  month  of  June,  when 
Guy  Darrell  and  Jasper  Losely  had  alike  re- 
turned, and  on  the  same  day,  to  the  metropolis ; 
and  then  the  old  man  received  from  her  a  letter 
which  occasioned  him  profound  alarm.  It  ap- 
prised him  not  only  that  his  terrible  son  was  in 
England — in  London ;  but  that  Jasper  had  dis- 


I  covered  that  the  persons  embarked  for  America 
were  not  the  veritable  Waife  and  Sophy,  whose 
names  they  had  assumed.  Mrs.  Crane  ended 
with  these  ominous  words:  "It  is  right  to  say- 
now  that  he  has  descended  deeper  and  deeper. 
Could  you  see  him,  you  would  wonder  that  I 
neither  abandon  him  nor  my  resolve.  He  hates 
me  worse  than  the  gibbet.  To  me,  and  not  to 
the  gibbet,  he  shall  pass — fitting  punishment  to 
both.  I  am  in  London,  not  in  my  old  house, 
but  near  him.  His  confidant  is  my  hireling. 
Ilis  life  and  his  projects  are  clear  to  my  eyes — • 
clear  as  if  he  dwelt  in  glass.  Soi)hy  is"  now  of 
an  age  in  which,  were  she  ]jlaced  in" the  care  of 
some  person  whose  respectability  could  not  be 
impugned,  she  could  not  be  legally  forced  away 
against  her  will ;  but  if  under  your  roof,  those 
whom  Jasper  has  induced  to  institute  a  search, 
that  he  has  no  means  to  institute  ven.-  actively 
himself,  might  make  statements  which  (as  you 
are  already  a vvare)might  persuade  others,  thot  gh 
well-meaning,  to  assist  him  in  sep-arating  her 
from  you.  He  might  publicly  face  even  a  po- 
lice court  if  he  thus  hoped  to  shame  the  rich 
man  into  buying  off  an  intolerable  scandal.  He 
might,  in  the  first  instance,  and  more  probably, 
decoy  her  into  his  power  through  stealth  ;  and 
what  might  become  of  her  before  she  was  re- 
covered? Separate  yourself  from  her  for  a  time. 
It  is  )'ou,  notwithstanding  your  arts  of  disguise, 
that  can  be  the  more  easily  tracked.  She,  now 
almost  a  woman,  will  have  grown  out  of  recog- 
nition. Place  her  in  some  secure  asylum  until 
at  least  j"ou  hear  from  me  again." 

"Waife  read  and  re-read  this  e]<istle  (to  v>hich 
there  w^as  no  direction  that  enabled  him  to  rej  ly) 
in  the  private  room  of  a  httle  coffee-house  to 
which  he  had  retired  from  the  gaze  and  press- 
ure of  the  streets.  The  determination  he  had 
long  brooded  over  now  began  to  take  shape — to 
be  hurried  on  to  prompt  decision.  On  recover- 
ing his  first  shock,  he  formed  and  matured  his 
jdans.  That  same  evening  he  saw  Lady  i\Iont- 
fort.  He  felt  that  the  tim.e  had  come  when,  for 
Sophy's  sake,  he  must  lift  the  vail  from  the 
obloquy  on  his  own  name.  To  guard  against 
the  same  concession  to  Jasper's  authority  that 
had  betrayed  her  atGatesboro',  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  ex]jlain  the  mystery  of  Sophy's 
parentage  and  position  to  Lady  Montfort,  and 
go  tlu-ough  the  anguish  of  denouncing  his  cv,n 
son  as  the  last  person  to  whose  hands  she  should 
be  consigned.  He  approached  this  subject  not 
only  with  a  sense  of  profound  humiliation,  but 
with  no  unreasonable  fear  lest  Lady  Montfort 
might  at  once  decline  a  charge  which  would 
possibly  subject  her  retirement  to  a  harassing 
invasion.  But,  to  his  surprise  as  well  as  relief, 
no  sooner  had  he  named  Sophy's  parentage  than 
Lady  Montfort  evinced  emotions  of  a  joy  which 
cast  into  the  shade  all  more  painful  or  disci-cd- 
itable  associations.  "  Henceforth,  believe  mo," 
she  said,  "your  Sophy  shall  be  my  own  child, 
my  own  treasured  darling!  no  humble  comj.an- 
ion — my  equal  as  well  as  my  charge.  Fear  not 
that  any  one  shall  tear  her  from  me.  Yen  are 
right  in  thinking  that  my  roof  should  be  l;er 
home — that  she  should  have  the  rearing  and  the 
station  which  she  is  entitled  as  well  as  fitted  to 
adorn.  But  you  nnist  not  part  from  her.  I 
have  listened  to  your  tale ;  my  experience  of 
you  supplies  the  defense  you  suppress — it  re- 


220 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


verses  the  judgment  wLich  has  aspersed  you. 
And,  more  ardently  than  before,  I  press  on  you 
a  refuge  in  the  Home  that  will  shelter  your 
grandchild."  Noble-hearted  woman !  and  no- 
bler for  her  ignorance  of  the  practical  world,  in 
the  proposal  which  would  have  blistered  with 
scorching  blushes  the  cheek  of  that  Personifica- 
tion of  all  "  Solemn  Plausibilities,"  the  House 
of  Vipont!  Gentleman  Waife  was  not  scamp 
enough  to  profit  by  the  ignorance  which  sprang 
from  generous  virtue.  But,  repressing  all  argu- 
ment, and  appearing  to  acquiesce  in  the  possi- 
bility of  such  an  arrangement,  he  left  her  be- 
nevolent delight  unsaddened — and  before  the 
morning  he  was  gone.  Gone  in  stealth,  and  by 
the  starlight,  as  he  had  gone  years  ago  from  the 
bailiff's  cottage — gone,  for  Sophy,  in  waking,  to 
find,  as  she  had  found  before,  farewell  lines, 
that  commended  hope  and  forbade  grief.  "It 
was,"  he  wrote,  "for  both  their  sakes  that  he 
had  set  out  on  a  tour  of  pleasant  adventure. 
He  needed  it ;  he  had  felt  his  spirits  drooj)  of 
late  in  so  humdrum  and  settled  a  life.  And 
there  was  danger  abroad — danger  that  his  brief 
absence  would  remove.  He  had  confided  all 
his  secrets  to  Lady  IMontfort ;  she  must  look  on 
that  kind  lady  as  her  sole  guardian  till  he  return- 
ed— as  return  he  surely  would ;  and  then  they 
would  live  happy  ever  afterward  as  in  fairy  tales. 
He  should  never  forgive  her  if  she  were  silly 
enough  to  fret  for  him.  He  should  not  be  alone ; 
Sir  Isaac  would  take  care  of  him.  He  was  not 
without  plenty  of  money  —  savings  of  several 
months ;  if  he  wanted  more,  he  would  apply  to 
George  Morley.  He  would  write  to  her  occa- 
sionally ;  but  she  must  not  expect  frequent  let- 
ters ;  he  might  be  away  for  months — -what  did 
that  signify  ?  He  was  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  himself;  she  was  no  longer  a  child  to  cry  her 
eyes  out  if  she  lost  a  senseless  toy,  or  a  stupid 
old  cripple.  She  was  a  young  lady,  and  he  ex- 
pected to  find  her  a  famous  scholar  when  he  re- 
turned." And  so,  with  all  flourish  and  bravado, 
and  suppressing  every  attempt  at  pathos,  the  old 
man  went  his  way,  and  Sophy,  hurrying  to  Lady 
Alontfort's,  weeping,  distracted,  imploring  her  to 
send  in  all  directions  to  discover  and  bring  back 
the  fugitive,  was  there  detained  a  captive  guest. 
But  Waife  left  a  letter  also  for  Lady  JMontfort, 
cautioning  and  adjuring  her,  as  she  valued  So- 
phy's safety  from  the  scandal  of  Jasper's  claim, 
not  to  make  any  imprudent  attempts  to  discover 
him.  Such  attempt  would  only  create  the  very 
publicity  from  the  chance  of  which  he  was  seek- 
ing to  escape.  The  necessity  of  this  caution  was 
so  obvious,  that  Lady  Mont'fort  could  only  send 
her  most  confidential  servant  to  inquire  guarded- 
ly in  the  neighborhood,  until  she  had  summoned 
George  Morley  from  Humberston,  and  taken 
him  into  counsel.  Waife  had  permitted  her  to 
relate  to  him,  on  strict  promise  of  secrecy,  the 
tale  he  had  confided  to  her.  George  entered 
with  the  deepest  sympathy  into  Sophy's  dis- 
tress ;  but  he  made  her  comprehend  the  indis- 
cretion and  peril  of  any  noisy  researches.  He 
promised  that  he  himself  would  sjxire  no  jiains 
to  ascertain  the  old  man's  hiding-j)lace,  and  sec, 
at  least,  if  he  could  not  be  persuaded  either  to 
return  or  suffer  her  to  join  him,  that  he  was  not 
left  destitute  and  comfortless.  Nor  was  this  an 
idle  promise.  George,  though  his  inquiries  were 
unceasing,  crippled  by  the  restraint  imposed  on  | 


them,  was  so  acute  in  divining,  and  so  active  in 
following  up  each  clew  to  the  wanderer's  artful 
doublings,  that  more  than  once  he  had  actually 
come  upon  the  track,  and  found  the  very  spot 
where  Waife  or  Sir  Isaac  had  been  seen  a  few 
days  before.  Still,  up  to  the  day  on  which  Mor- 
ley had  last  reported  progress,  the  ingenious  ex- 
actor, fertile  in  all  resources  of  stratagem  and 
disguise,  had  baftled  his  research.  At  first, 
however,  Waife  had  greatly  relieved  the  minds 
of  these  anxious  friends,  and  cheered  even 
Sophy's  heavy  heart,  by  letters,  gay  though 
brief.  These  letters  having,  by  their  postmarks, 
led  to  his  trace,  he  had  stated,  in  apparent  an- 
ger, that  reason  for  discontinuing  them.  And 
for  the  last  six  weeks,  no  line  from  him  had 
been  received.  In  fact,  the  old  man,  on  resolv- 
ing to  consummate  his  self-abnegation,  strove 
more  and  more  to  wean  his  grandchild's  thoughts 
from  his  image.  He  deemed  it  so  essential  to 
her  whole  future,  that,  now  she  had  found  a 
home  in  so  secure  and  so  elevated  a  sphere,  she 
should  gradually  accustom  herself  to  a  new  rank 
of  life,  from  which  he  was  an  everlasting  exile  ; 
should  lose  all  trace  of  his  very  being;  eflace  a 
connection  that,  ceasing  to  protect,  could  hence- 
forth only  harm  and  dishonor  her ;  that  he  tried, 
as  it  were,  to  blot  himself  out  of  the  world  which 
now  smiled  on  her.  He  did  not  underrate  her 
grief  in  its  fii'st  freshness :  he  knew  that,  could 
she  learn  where  he  was,  all  else  would  be  for- 
gotten— she  would  insist  on  flying  to  him.  But 
he  continually  murmured  to  himself,  "  Youth  is 
ever  proverbially  short  of  memory;  its  sorrows 
poignant,  but  not  endui-ing;  now  the  wounds 
are  already  scarring  over — they  will  not  reopen 
if  they  are  left  to  heal." 

He  had,  at  first,  thought  of  hiding  some- 
where not  so  far  but  that  once  a  week,  or  once 
a  month,  he  might  have  stolen  into  the  grounds, 
looked  at  the  house  that  held  her — left,  per- 
haps, in  her  walks  some  little  token  of  himself. 
But,  on  reflection,  he  felt  that  that  luxury  would 
be  too  imprudent,  and  it  ceased  to  tempt  him  in 
proportion  as  he  reasoned  himself  into  the  stern 
wisdom  of  avoiding  all  that  could  revive  her 
grief  for  him.  At  the  commencement  of  this 
tale,  in  the  outline  given  of  that  grand  melo- 
drama in  which  Juliet  Araminta  played  the 
part  of  the  Bandit's  child,  her  efi^brts  to  decoy 
pursuit  from  the  lair  of  the  persecuted  Mime 
were  likened  to  the  arts  of  the  sky-lark  to  lure 
eye  and  hand  from  the  nest  of  its  young.  ]\Iore 
appropriate  that  illustration  now  to  the  parent- 
bird  than  then  to  the  fledgeling.  Farther  and 
farther  from  the  nest  in  which  all  his  love  was 
centred  fled  the  old  man.  What  if  Jasper  did 
discover  him  now;  that  very  discovery  would 
mislead  the  pursuit  from  Sophy.  Most  improba- 
ble that  Losely  would  ever  guess  that  they  could 
become  separated ;  still  more  improbable,  un- 
less Waife,  imprudently  lurking  near  her  home, 
guided  conjecture,  that  Losely  should  dream  of 
seeking  under  the  roof  of  the  lofty  peeress  the 
child  that  had  fled  from  IMr.  Rugge. 

I'oor  old  man!  his  heart  was  breaking;  but 
his  soul  was  so  brightly  comforted,  that  there, 
where  many,  many  long  miles  off,  I  see  him 
standing,  desolate  and  patient,  in  the  corner  of 
yon  crowded  market-place,  holding  Sir  Isaac  by- 
slackened  string,  with  listless  hand — Sir  Isaac 
unshorn,  travel-stained,  draggled,  with  drooping 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


221 


head  and  melancholy  eyes — yea,  as  I  see  him 
there,  jostled  by  the  crowd,  to  wliom,  now  and 
then,  pointing  to  that  huge  pannier  on  his  arm, 
filled  with  some  homely  peddler-wares,  he  me- 
chanically mutters,  "Buy" — yea,  I  say,  verily, 
as  I  see  liim  thus,  I  can  not  draw  near  in  pity — 
I  see  what  the  crowd  does  not — the  shadow  of 
an  angel's  wing  over  his  gray  head ;  and  I  stand 
reverentially  aloof,  with  bated  breath  and  bend- 
ed knee. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  woman  too  often  reasons  from  lier  lieart — lience  two- 
thirds  of  her  mistakes  and  her  troubles.  A  man  of 
genius,  too,  often  reasons  from  his  heart — hence,  also, 
two-thirds  of  his  troubles  and  mistakes.  Wherefore, 
between  woman  and  genius  there  is  a  sympathetic  af- 
finity; each  has  some  intuitive  comprehension  of  the 
secrets  of  the  other,  and  the  more  feminine  the  woman, 
the  more  exquisite  the  genius,  the  more  subtle  the  in- 
telligence between  the  two.  But  note  well  that  this 
tacit  understanding  becomes  obscui"ed  if  human  love 
pass  across  its  relations.  Shakspearo  interprets  aright 
the  most  intricate  riddles  in  woman.  A  woman  was 
the  first  to  interpret  aright  the  art  that  is  latent  in 
Sluilcspeare.  But  did  Anne  Hathaway  and  Shakspeare 
understand  each  other  ? 

Unobserved  by  the  two  young  people,  Lady 
Montfort  sate  watching  them  as  they  moved 
along  the  river  banks.  She  was  seated  where 
Lionel  had  first  seen  her- — in  the  kind  of  grassy 
chamber  that  had  been  won  from  the  foliage 
and  the  sward,  closed  round  with  interlaced  au- 
tumnal branches,  save  where  it  opened  toward 
the  water.  If  ever  woman's  brain  can  conceive 
and  plot  a  scheme  thoroughly  pure  from  one 
ungentle,  selfish  thread  in  its  web,  in  such  a 
scheme  had  Caroline  Montfort  brouglit  together 
those  two  fair  young  natures.  And  yet  they 
were  not  uppermost  in  her  thoughts  as  she  now 
gazed  on  them  ;  nor  was  it  wholly  for  them  that 
her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  at  once  sweet, 
yet  profoundly  mournful — holy,  and  yet  intense- 
ly human. 

Women  love  to  think  themselves  uncompre- 
hended — nor  often  without  reason  in  that  foi- 
ble; for  man,  howsoever  sagacious,  rarely  does 
entirely  comprehend  woman,  howsoever  simple. 
And  in  this  her  sex  has  the  advantage  over  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  bare  to  their  eyes,  even  though 
they  can  never  know  what  have  been  otir  lives. 
But  we  may  see  every  action  of  their  lives, 
guarded  and  circumscribed  in  conventional 
forms,  wliile  their  liearts  will  have  many  mys- 
teries to  which  we  can  never  have  tlie  key'.  But, 
in  more  than  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word, 
Caroline  Montfort  ever  had  been  a  woman  nn- 
comprehended.  Nor  even  in  her  own  sex  did 
she  possess  one  confidante.  Only  the  outward 
leaves  of  that  beautiful  flower  opened  to  the 
sunlight.  The  leaves  round  the  core  were  gath- 
ered fold  upon  fold  closely  as  when  life  itself 
was  in  the  bud. 

As  all  the  years  of  her  wedded  existence  her 
heart  had  been  denied  the  natural  household 
vents,  so,  by  some  strange  and  unaccountable 
chance,  her  intellect  also  seemed  restrained  and 
pent  from  its  proper  freedom  and  play.  During 
those  barren  years  she  had  read — she  had  pon- 
dered— she  had  enjoyed  a  commune  with  those 
whose  minds  instyict  others,  and  still  her  own 
intelligence,  which,  in  early  youth,  had  been 
characterized  by  singular  vivacity  and  bright- 


ness, and  which  Time  had  enriched  with  every 
womanly  accomplishment,  seemed  chilled  and 
objectless.  It  is  not  enough  that  a  mind  should 
be  cultured — it  should  have  movement  as  well 
as  culture.  Caroline  Montfort's  lay  quiescent, 
like  a  beautiful  form  spell-bound  to  repose,  but 
not  to  sleep.  Looking  on  her  once,  as  he  stood 
among  a  crowd  whom  her  beauty  dazzled,  a  poet 
said,  abruptly,  "  Were  my  guess  not  a  sacrilege 
to  one  so  spotless  and  so  haughty,  I  should  say 
tliat  I  had  hit  on  the  solution  of  an  enigma 
that  long  perplexed  me ;  and  in  the  core  of  that 
queen  of  the  lilies,  could  we  strip  the  leaves 
folded  round  it,  we  should  find  lie/norse." 

Lady  Montfort  started;  the  shadow  of  an- 
other form  than  her  own  fell  upon  the  sward. 
George  Morley  stood  behind  her,  liis  finger  on 
his  lips.  "Hush,"  he  said  in  a  whisper  ;  "see, 
Sophy  is  looking  for  me  up  the  river.  I  knew 
she  would  be — I  stole  this  way  on  purpose — for 
I  would  speak  to  you  before  I  face  her  ques- 
tions." 

"What  is  the  matter? — you  alarm  me!"  said 
Lady  Montfort,  on  gaining  a  part  of  the  grounds 
more  remote  from  the  river,  to  which  George 
had  silently  led  the  way. 

"  Nay,  my  dear  cousin,  there  is  less  cause  for 
alarm  than  for  anxious  deliberation,  and  that 
upon  more  matters  than  those  which  directly 
relate  to  our  poor  fugitive.  You  know  that  I 
long  shrunk  from  enlisting  the  police  in  aid  of 
our  search.  I  was  too  sensible  of  the  pain  and 
offense  which  such  an  application  would  occa- 
sion Waife — (let  us  continue  so  to  call  him) — 
and  the  discovery  of  it  might  even  induce  him 
to  put  himself  beyond  our  reach,  and  quit  En- 
gland. But  his  jn-olonged  silence,  and  my  fears 
lest  some  illness  or  mishap  might  have  befallen 
him,  together  with  my  serious  apprehensions  of 
the  effect  which  unrelieved  anxiety  might  pro- 
duce on  Sophy's  health,  made  me  resolve  to 
wave  former  scruples.  Since  I  last  saw  you  I 
have  applied  to  one  of  the  higher  police-officers 
accustomed  to  confidential  investigations  of  a 
similar  nature.  The  next  day  he  came  to  tell 
me  that  he  had  learned  that  a  "friend  of  his,  who 
had  been  formerly  a  distinguished  agent  in  the 
detective  police,  had  been  engaged  for  months 
in  tracking  a  person  whom  he  conjectured  to  be 
the  same  as  the  one  whom  I  had  commissioned 
him  to  discover,  and  with  somewhat  less  caution 
and  delicacy  than  I  had  enjoined.  The  fugi- 
tive's real  name  had  been  given  to  this  ex-agent 
— tlie  cause  for  search,  that  he  had  abducted 
and  was  concealing  his  grand-daughter  from  her 
father.  It  w-as  easy  for  me  to  perceive  why  this 
novel  search  had  hitherto  failed,  no  suspicion  be- 
ing entertained  that  Waife  had  separated  him- 
self from  Sophy,  and  the  inquiry  being  therefore 
rather  directed  toward  the  grandcluld  than  the 
grandfather.  But  that  inquiry  had  altogether 
ceased  of  late,  and  for  this  terrible  reason — a 
different  section  of  the  police  had  fixed  its  eye 
upon  the  father  on  whose  behalf  the  search  had 
been  instituted.  This  Jasper  Losely  (ah  I  our 
poor  friend  might  well  shudder  to  think  Sophy 
should  fall  into  his  hands  I)  haunts  the  resorts 
of  the  most  lawless  and  formidable  desperadoes 
of  London.  He  appeais  to  be  a  kind  of  author- 
ity among  them ;  but  there  is  no  evidence  that 
as  yet  he  has  committed  himself  to  any  partici- 
pation in  their  habitual  coiu'ses.    He  lives  pro- 


222 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


fiisely,  for  a  person  in  such  society  (rea;alinp: 
Daredevils,  whom  he  awes  by  a  strength  and 
coiirap;e  which  are  described  as  extraordinary), 
but  without  any  visible  means.  It  seems  that 
the  ex-a^ent,  who  had  been  thus  previously  em- 
ployed in  Jasper  Losely's  name,  had  been  en- 
ga-^ed,  not  by  Jasper  himself,  but  by  a  person 
in  verv  respectable  circumstances,  whose  name 
I  have  ascertained  to  be  Poole.  And  the  ex- 
a,cjent  deemed  it  right  to  acquaint  this  Mr.  Poole 
with  Jasper's  evil  character  and  ambiguous  mode 
of  life,  and  to  intimate  to  his  employer  that  it 
mi^ht  not  be  prudent  to  hold  any  connection 
with  such  a  man,  and  still  less  proper  to  assist 
in  restoring  a  young  girl  to  his  care.  On  this  Mr. 
Poole  became  so  much  agitated,  and  expressed 
himself  so  incoherently  as  to  his  relations  with 
Jasper,  that  the  ex-agent  conceived  suspicions 
against  Poole  himself,  and  reported  the  whole 
circumstances  to  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  former 
service,  through  whom  they  reached  the  very 
man  whom  I  myself  was  employing.  But  this 
ex-agent,  who  liad,  after  his  last  interview  with 
Poole,  declined  all  farther  interference,  had 
since  then,  through  a  correspondent  in  a  coun- 
try town,  whom  he  had  employed  at  the  first, 
obtained  a  clew  to  my  dear  old  friend's  wander- 
ings, more  recent,  and  I  think  more  hopeful, 
than  any  I  had  yet  discovered.  You  will  re- 
member that  when  questioning  Sophy  as  to  any 
friends  in  her  former  life  to  whom  it  was  proba- 
ble Waife  might  have  addressed  himself,  she 
coald  think  of  no  one  so  probable  as  a  cobbler 
named  Merle,  with  whom  he  and  she  had  once 
lodged,  and  of  whom  he  had  often  spoken  to  her 
with  much  gratitude,  as  having  put  him  in  the 
way  of  recovering  herself,  and  having  shown 
him  a  peculiar  trustful  kindness  on  that  occa- 
sion. But  you  will  remember  also  that  I  could 
not  find  this  Merle ;  he  had  left  the  village,  near 
this  very  place,  in  which  he  had  spent  the  great- 
er part  of  his  life — his  humble  trade  having  been 
neglected  in  consequence  of  some  strange  super- 
stitious occupations  in  which,  as  he  had  grown 
older,  he  had  become  more  and  more  absorbed. 
He  had  fallen  into  poverty ;  his  effects  had  been 
sold  off;  he  had  gone  away  no  one  knew  whith- 
er. Well,  the  ex-agent,  who  had  also  been  di- 
rected to  this  Merle  by  his  employer,  had,  through 
his  correspondent,  ascertained  that  the  cobbler 
was  living  at  Norwich,  where  he  passed  under 
the  name  of  the  Wise  Man,  and  where  he  was 
in  perpetual  danger  of  being  sent  to  the  house 
of  correction  as  an  impostor,  dealing  in  astrology, 
crystal-seeing,  and  such  silly  or  nefarious  prac- 
tices. Very  odd,  indeed,  and  very  melancholy 
too,"  quoth  the  scholar,  lifting  up  his  hands  and 
eyes,  "that  a  man  so  gifted  as  our  poor  friend 
should  ever  have  cultivated  an  acquaintance  with 
a  cobbler  who  deals  in  the  Black  Art!" 

"  Sophy  has  talked  to  me  much  about  that 
cobbler,"  said  Lady  Montfort,  with  her  sweet 
half-smile.  "It  was  under  his  roof  that  she 
first  saw  Lionel  Haughton.  But  though  the 
poor  man  may  be  an  ignorant  enthusiast,  he  is 
certainly,  by  her  account,  too  kind  an  I  simple- 
hearted  to  be  a  designing  impostor." 

George.  "Possibly.  But,  to  go  on  with  my 
story :  A  few  weeks  ago,  an  elderly  lame  man, 
accompanied  by  a  dog,  who  was  evidently  poor 
dear  Sir  Isaac,  lodged  two  days  with  Merle  at 
Norwich.     On  hearing  this,  I  myself  went  yes- 


terday to  Norwich,  saw  and  talked  to  ^lerle,  and 
through  this  man  I  hope,  more  easily,  delicate- 
ly, and  expeditiously  than  by  any  other  means, 
to  achieve  our  object.  He  evidently  can  assist 
us,  and,  as  evidently,  Waife  has  not  told  him 
that  he  is  flying  from  Sophy  and  friends,  but 
from  enemies  and  persecutors.  For  Merle,  who 
is  impervious  to  bribes,  and  who  at  first  was 
churlish  and  rude,  became  softened  as  my  hon- 
est affection  for  the  fugitive  grew  clear  to  him, 
and  still  more  when  I  told  him  how  wretched 
Sophv  was  at  her  grandfather's  disappearance, 
and  that  she  might  fret  herself  into  a  decline. 
And  we  parted  with  this  promise  on  his  side, 
that  if  I  would  bring  down  to  him  either  Sophy 
herself  (which  is  out  of  the  question),  or  a  line 
from  her,  which,  in  refen'ing  to  any  circum- 
stances while  vmder  his  roof  that  could  only  be 
known  to  her  and  himself,  should  convince  him 
that  the  letter  was  from  her  hand,  assuring  him 
that  it  was  for  Waife's  benefit  and  at  her  prayer 
that  he  should  bestir  himself  in  the  search  for 
her  grandfather,  and  that  he  might  implicitly 
trust  to  me,  he  would  do  all  he  could  to  help 
us.  So  far,  then,  so  good.  But  I  have  now 
more  to  say,  and  that  is  in  reference  to  Sophy 
herself.  While  we  are  tracking  her  grandfather, 
the  peril  to  her  is  not  lessened.  Never  was  that 
peril  thoroughly  brought  before  my  eyes  until  I 
had  heard  actually  from  the  police  agent  the 
dreadful  character  and  associations  of  the  man 
who  can  claim  her  in  a  father's  name.  Waife, 
it  is  true,  had  told  you  that  his  son  was  profli- 
gate, spendthrift,  lawless — sought  her,  not  from 
natural  affection,  but  as  an  instrument  to  be 
used,  roughly  and  coarsely,  for  the  purpose  of 
extorting  money  from  Mv.  Darrell.  But  this 
stops  far  short  of  the  terrible  reality.  Imagine 
the  effect  on  her  nerves,  so  depressed  as  they  now 
are,  nay,  on  her  very  life,  should  this  audacious 
miscreant  force  himself  here  and  say,  'Come 
with  me,  you  are  my  child !'  And  are  we  quite 
sure  that  out  of  some  refining  nobleness  of  con- 
science she  might  not  imagine  it  her  duty  to  obey, 
and  to  follow  him  ?  The  more  abject  and  friend- 
less his  condition,  the  more  she  might  deem  it 
her  duty  to  be  by  his  side.  I  have  studied  her 
from  childhood.  She  is  capable  of  any  error  in 
judgment,  if  it  be  made  to  appear  a  martyr's 
devoted  self-sacrifice.  You  may  well  shudder, 
my  dear  cousin.  But  grant  that  she  were  swayed 
bv  us  and  by  the  argument  that  so  to  act  would 
betray  and  kill  her  beloved  grandfather,  still,  in 
resisting  this  ruffian's  paternal  authority,  what 
violent  and  painful  scenes  might  ensue !  What 
dreadful  publicity  to  be  attached  forever  to  her 
name!  Nor  is  this  all.  Grant  that  her  father 
does  not  discover  her,  but  that  he  is  led  by  his 
associates  into  some  criminal  offense,  and  suffers 
by  the  law — her  relationship,  both  to  him  from 
whom  you  would  guard  her,  and  to  him  whose 
hearth  you  have  so  tenderly  reared  her  to  grace, 
suddenly  dragged  to  day — would  not  the  shame 
kill  her?  And  in  that  disclosure  how  keen  would 
be  the  anguish  of  Darrell !" 

"  Oh  Heavens !"  cried  Caroline  Montfort, 
white  as  ashes,  and  wringing  her  hands,  "  you 
'"reeze  me  with  terror.  But  this  man  can  not  be 
so  fallen  as  you  describe.  I  have  seen  him — 
spoken  with'him  in  his  youth — hoped  then  to 
assist  in  a  task  of  conciliation,  pardon.  No- 
thintr  about  him  then  forboded  so  fearful  a  cor- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


223 


ruption.  He  might  be  vain,  extravagant,  self- 
ish, false — ah,  yes  !  he  was  false  indeed  ! — but 
still  the  ruffian  you  paint,  banded  with  common 
criminals,  can  not  be  the  same  as  the  gay,  dain- 
ty, perfumed,  fair-faced  adventurer  with  whom 
my  ill-fated  playmate  fled  her  father's  house. 
You  shake  your  head — what  is  it  you  advise  ?" 
"  To  expedite  your  own  project — to  make  at 
once  the  resolute  attempt  to  secure  to  this  poor 
child  her  best,  her  most  rightful  protector — to 
let  whatever  can  be  done  to  guard  her  from 
danger,  or  reclaim  her  father  from  courses  to 
which  despair  may  be  driving  him — to  let,  I 
say,  all  this  be  done  by  the  person  whose  in- 
terest in  doing  it  effectively  is  so  paramount  — 
whose  ability  to  judge  of  and  decide  on  the 
wisest  means  is  so  immeasurably  superior  to  all 
that  lies  within  our  own  limited  experience  of 
life." 

"  But  you  forget  that  our  friend  told  me  that 
he  had  appealed  to — to  Mr.  Darrell  on  his  return 
to  England ;  that  I\Ir.  Darrell  had  peremptorily 
refused  to  credit  the  claim ;  and  had  sternly 
said  ihat,  even  if  Sophy's  birth  could  be  proved, 
he  would  not  place  under  her  father's  roof  the 
grandchild  of  William  Losely." 

"  True ;  and  yet  you  hoped  reasonably  enough 
to  succeed  where  he,  poor  outcast,  had  failed." 
"  Yes,  yes ;  I  did  hope  that  Sophy — her  man- 
ners formed,  her  education  completed — all  her 
natm-al  exquisite  graces  so  cultured  and  refined 
as  to  justify  pride  in  the  proudest  kindred — I 
did  hope  that  she  should  be  brought,  as  it  were 
by  accident,  imder  his  notice ;  tbat  she  would 
interest  and  charm  him;  and  that  the  claim, 
when  made,  might  thus  be  welcomed  with  de- 
light. Mr.  Darrell's  abrupt  return  to  a  seclu- 
sion so  rigid  forbids  the  opportunity  that  might 
easily  have  been  found  or  made  if  he  had  re- 
mained in  London.  But  suddenly,  violently  to 
renew  a  claim  that  such  a  man  has  rejected, 
before  he  has  ever  seen  that  dear  child — before 
his  heart  and  his  taste  plead  for  her — who  would 
dare  to  do  it  ?  or,  if  so  daring,  who  could  hope 
success?" 

'■  My  dear  Lady  Montfort,  my  noble  cousin, 
with  repute  as  spotless  as  the  ermine  of  your 
robe — -who  but  you?" 

"  Who  but  I '?  Any  one.  Mr.  Darrell  would 
not  even  read  through  a  letter  addressed  to  him 
by  me?" 

George  stared  with  astonishment.  Caroline's 
face  was  downcast — her  attitude  that  of  pro- 
found humihated  dejection.  , 

"  Incredible !"  said  he,  at  length.  "  I  have 
always  suspected,  and  so  indeed  has  my  un- 
cle, that  Darrell  had  some  cause  of  complaint 
against  your  mother.  Perhaps  he  might  have 
supposed  that  she  had  not  sufficiently  watched 
over  his  daughter,  or  had  not  sufficiently  in- 
quired into  the  character  of  the  governess  whom 
she  recommended  to  him  ;  and  that  this  had  led 
to  an  estrangement  between  Darrell  and  your 
mother  which  could  not  fail  to  extend  some- 
what to  yourself.  But  such  misunderstandings 
can  surely  now  be  easily  removed.  Talk  of  his 
not  reading  a  letter  addressed  to  him  by  vou! 
Why,  do  I  not  remember,  when  I  was  on'avisit 
to  my  school-fellow,  his  son,  what  influence  you, 
a  mere  child  yourself,  had  over  that  grave,  busy 
man,  then  in  the  height  of  his  career — how  you 
alone  could  run  without  awe  into  his  study — 


how  you  alone  had  the  privilege  to  arrange  his 
books,  sort  his  papers  —  so  that  we  two  bovs 
looked  on  you  with  a  solemn  respect,  as  the 
depositary  of  all  his  state  secrets — how  vainly 
you  tried  to  decoy  that  poor  timid  Matilda,  his 
daughter,  into  a  share  of  your  own  audacitv .' — 
Is  not  all  this  true  ?" 

j  "  Oh  yes,  yes — old  days,  gone  forever!" 
I  "  Do  I  not  remember  how  you  promised  that, 
before  I  went  back  to  school,  I  should  hear  Dar- 
rell read  aloud — how  you  brought  the  volume 
of  Milton  to  him  in  the  evening— how  he  said, 
'  No,  to-morrow  night ;  I  must  go  now  to  the 
House  of  Commons' — how  I  man-eled  to  hear 
you  answer,  boldly,  'To-morrow  night  George 
will  have  left  us,  and  I  have  promised  that  he 
sliall  hear  you  read' — and  how,  looking  at  you 
I  under  those  dark  brows  with  serious  softness^  he 
said,  '  Right ;  promises,  once  given,  must  be 
kept.  But  was  it  not  rash  to  promise  in  anoth- 
er's name?'  —  and  you  answered,  half  gently, 
half  pettishly,  '  As  if  you  could  fail  me !'  He 
took  the  book  without  another  word,  and  read. 
What  reading  it  was,  too !  And  do  you  not  re- 
member another  time,  how — " 

Lady  Moxtfort  (interrupting  with  nervous 
impatience).  "  Ay,  a}- — I  need  no  reminding  of 
all — all !  Kindest,  noblest,  gentlest  friend  to  a 
giddy,  heedless  child,  unable  to  appreciate  the 
blessing.  But  now,  George,  I  dare  not,  I  can 
not  write  to  Mr.  Darrell."" 

George  mused  a  moment,  and  conjectured 
that  Lady  Montfort  had,  in  the  inconsiderate, 
impulsive  season  of  youth,  aided  in  the  clandes- 
tine marriage  of  Darrell's  daughter,  and  had  be- 
come thus  associated  in  his  mind  with  the  af- 
fliction that  had  imbittered  his  existence.  Were 
this  so,  certainly  she  would  not  be  the  fitting  in- 
tercessor on  behalf  of  Sophy.  His  thoughts  then 
turned  to  his  uncle,  Darrell's  earliest  friend,  not 
suspecting  that  Colonel  Morleywas  actually  the 
person  whom  DaiTcll  had  already  appointed  his 
adviser  and  representative  in  all  transactions 
that  might  concern  the  very  parties  under  dis- 
cussion. But  just  as  he  was  about  to  suggest 
the  expediency  of  writing  to  Alban  to  return  to 
England,  and  taking  him  into  confidence  and 
consultation.  Lady  Montfort  resumed,  in  a  calm- 
er voice,  and  with  a  less  troubled  countenance, 
"Who  should  be  the  pleader  for  one  whose 
claim,  if  acknowledged,  would  affect  his  own 
fortunes,  but  Lionel  Haughton  ?  Hold  ! — look 
where  yonder  they  come  into  sight  —  there,  by 
the  gap  in  the  evergreens.  May  vre  not  hope 
that  Providence,  bringing  those"  two  beautiful 
lives  together,  gives  a  solution  to  the  difficulties 
which  thwart  our  action  and  embarrass  our 
judgment  ?  I  conceived  and  planned  a  blissful 
romance  the  first  moment  I  gathered  from  So- 
phy's artless  confidences  the  effect  that  had 
been  produced  on  her  whole  train  of  thought 
and  feeling  by  the  first  meeting  with  Lionel  in 
her  childhood;  by  his  brotherly,  chivalrous  kind- 
ness, and,  above  all,  by  the  chance  words  he  let 
fall,  which  discontented  her  with  a  life  of  shift 
and  disguise,  and  revealed  to  her  the  instincts 
of  her  own  honest,  truthful  nature.  An  alli- 
ance between  Lionel  Haughton  and  Sophy  seem- 
ed to  me  the  happiest  possible  event  that  could 
befall  Guy  DaiTcll.  The  two  branches  of  his 
family  united — a  painful  household  secret  con- 
fined to  the  circle  of  his  own  kindred — grant- 


oo^ 


WEL.^.T  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


ing  Sophy's  claim  never  perfectly  cleared  up, 
but  subject  to  a  tormenting  doubt — her  future 
equally  assured — her  possible  rights  equally  es- 
tablished— Darrell's  conscience  and  pride  rec- 
onciled to  each  other.  And  how,  even  but  as 
vnfe  to  his  young  kinsman,  he  would  learn  to 
love  one  so  exquisitely  endearing!"  [Lady 
^Montfort  paused  a  moment,  and  then  resumed.] 
'•  When  I  heard  that  ^Ir.  Darrell  was  about  to 
marrv  again,  my  project  was  necessarily  arrest- 
ed." ■ 

'•  Certainly,"  said  George,  "if  he  formed  new 
ties,  Sophy  would  be  less  an  object  in  his  exist- 
ence, whether  or  not  he  recognized  her  birth. 
The  alliance  between  her  and  Lionel  would  lose 
many  of  its  advantages ;  and  any  address  to  him 
on  Sophy's  behalf  would  become  yet  more  un- 
gi'aciously  received." 

La.dy  Moxtfort.  "  In  that  case  I  had  re- 
solved to  adopt  Sophy  as  my  own  child ;  lay  by 
from  my  abundant  income  an  ample  dowry  for 
her ;  and  whether  Mr.  Darrell  ever  knew  it  or 
not,  at  least  I  should  have  the  secret  joy  to  think 
that  I  was  saving  him  from  the  risk  of  remorse 
hereafter  —  should  she  be,  as  we  believe,  his 
daughter's  child,  and  have  been  thrown  upon 
the  world  destitute ; — yes,  the  secret  joy  of  feel- 
ing that  I  was  sheltering,  fostering  as  a  mother, 
one  whose  rightful  home  might  be  with  him 
who  in  my  childhood  sheltered,  fostered  me  1" 

George  (much  affected).  "  How,  in  propor- 
tion as  we  know  you,  the  beauty  which  you  vail 
from  the  world  outshines  that  which  you  can 
not  prevent  the  world  from  seeing  I  But  you 
must  not  let  this  grateful  enthusiasm  blind  your 
better  judgment.  You  think  these  young  per- 
sons are  beginning  to  be  really  attached  to  each 
other.  Then  it  is  the  more  necessary  that  no 
time  should  be  lost  in  learning  how  Mr.  Darrell 
would  regard  such  a  marriage.  I  do  not  feel 
so  assured  of  his  consent  as  you  appear  to  do. 
At  all  events,  this  should  be  ascertained  before 
their  happiness  is  seriously  involved.  I  agree 
with  you  that  Lionel  is  the  best  intermediator 
to  plead  for  Sophy ;  and  his  very  generosity  in 
urging  her  prior  claim  #o  a  fortune  that  might 
otherwise  pass  to  him,  is  likely  to  have  weight 
with  a  man  so  generous  himself  as  Guy  Darrell 
is  held  to  be.  But  does  Lionel  yet  know  all  ? 
Have  you  yet  ventured  to  confide  to  him,  or 
even  to  Sophy  herself,  the  nature  of  her  claim 
on  the  man  who  so  proudly  denies  it?' 

"Xo — I  deemed  it  due  to  Sophy's  pride  of 
sex  to  imply  to  her  that  she  would,  in  fortune 
and  in  social  position,  be  entitled  to  equality 
with  those  whom  she  might  meet  here.  And 
that  is  true,  if  only  as  the  child  whom  I  adopt 
and  enrich.  I  have  not  said  more.  And  only 
since  Lionel  has  appeared  has  she  ever  seemed 
interested  in  any  thing  that  relates  to  her  par- 
entage. From  the  recollection  of  her  father 
she  naturally  shrinks — she  never  mentions  his 
name.  But  two  days  ago  she  did  ask  timidly, 
and  with  great  change  of  countenance,  if  it  was 
through  her  mother  that  she  was  entitled  to  a 
rank  higher  than  she  had  hitherto  known ;  and 
when  I  answered  '  Yes,'  she  sighed,  and  said, 
'But  my  dear  grandfather  never  spoke  to  me 
of  her ;  he  never  even  saw  my  mother.'  " 

George.  "And  you,  I  suspect,  do  not  much 
like  to  talk  of  that  mother.  I  have  gathered 
from  you,  unawares  to  yourself,  that  she  was 


not  a  person  you  could  highly  praise ;  and  to 
me,  as  a  boy,  she  seemed,  with  all  her  timidity, 
wapvard  and  deceitful." 

Ladv  Montfoet.  "Alas I  how  bitterly  she 
must  have  suffered — and  how  young  she  was! 
But  you  are  right ;  I  can  not  speak  to  Sophy 
of  her  mother,  the  subject  is  connected  with  so 
much  sorrow.  But  I  told  her  '  that  she  should 
know  all  soon ;'  and  she  said,  with  a  sweet  and 
melancholy  patience,  '  When  my  poor  grandfa- 
ther will  be  by  to  hear:  I  can  wait.'  " 

George.  "  But  is  Lionel,  with  his  quick  in- 
tellect and  busy  imagination,  equally  patient  ? 
Does  he  not  guess  at  the  truth  ?  You  have  told 
'  him  that  you  do  meditate  a  project  which  af- 
•  fects  Guy  Darrell,  and  required  his  promise  not 
I  to  divulge  to  Darrell  his  visits  In  this  house." 
I  Ladt  iloxTFORT.  "He  knows  that  Sophy's 
j  paternal  grandfather  was  William  Losely.  From 
I  your  uncle  he  heard  William  Losely's  story, 
[  and — ■' 
I      George.  "  My  uncle  Alban  ?" 

Lady  Mostfort.  "  I'es ;  the  Colonel  was 
I  well  acquainted  with  the  elder  Losely  in  former 
days,  and  spoke  of  him  to  Lionel  with  great  af- 
fection. It  seems  that  Lionel's  father  knew 
him  also,  and  thoughtlessly  involved  him  in  his 
own  pecimiary  difficulties.  Lionel  was  not  long 
a  visitor  here  before  he  asked  me  abruptly  if 
Mr.  Waife's  real  name  was  not  Losely.  I  was 
obliged  to  own  it,  begging  him  not  at  present  to 
question  me  further.  He  said,  then,  with  much 
emotion,  that  he  had  a  hereditary  debt  to  dis- 
charge to  WilUam  Losely,  and  that  he  was  the 
last  person  who  ought  to  relinquish  belief  in  the 
old  man's  innocence  of  the  crime  for  which  the 
law  had  condemned  him,  or  to  judge  him  harsh- 
ly if  the  innocence  were  not  substantiated.  You 
remember  with  what  eagerness  he  joined  in 
your  search,  until  you  positively  forbade  his  in- 
terposition, fearing  that  should  our  poor  friend 
hear  of  inquiries  instituted  by  one  whom  he 
could  not  recognize  as  a  friend,  and  might  pos- 
sibly consider  an  emissary  of  his  son's,  he  would 
take  yet  greater  pains  to  conceal  himself.  But 
from  the  moment  that  Lionel  learned  that  So- 
phy's grandfather  was  William  Losely  his  man- 
ner to  Sophy  became  yet  more  tenderly  respect- 
ful. He  has  a  glorious  nature,  that  young  man ! 
But  did  your  uncle  never  speak  to  you  of  Will- 
iam Losely  ?" 

"Xo.  I  am  not  surprised  at  that.  5Iy  un- 
cle Alban  avoids  -painful  subjects.'  I  am  only 
surprised  ihat  he  should  have  revived  a  painful 
subject  in  talk  to  Lionel.  But  I  now  understand 
why,  when  Waife  first  heard  my  name,  he  seem- 
ed aftected,  and  why  he  so  specially  enjoined 
me  never  to  mention  or  describe  him  to  my 
friends  and  relations.  Then  Lionel  knows 
Losely's  story,  but  not  his  son's  connection  with 
Darrell  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  He  knows  but  what  is  gen- 
erally said  in  the  world,  that  Darrell's  daugh- 
ter eloped  with  a  IMr.  Hammond,  a  man  of  in- 
ferior birth,  and  died  abroad,  leaving  but  one 
child,  who  is  also  dead.  Still  Lionel  does  sus- 
pect— my  verv-  injunctions  of  secrecy  must  make 
him  more  than  suspect — that  the  Loselys  are 
somehow  or  other  mixed  up  with  Darrell's  fam- 
ily historv".  Hush!  I  hear  his  voice  yonder — 
they  approach." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  let  it  be  settled  between 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


us,  tlien,  that  you  frankly  and  without  delay 
communicate  to  Lionel  the  whole  truth,  so  far 
as  it  is  known  to  us,  and  put  it  to  him  how  best 
and  most  touchingly  to  move  Mr.  Darrell  to- 
ward her,  of  whom  we  hold  him  to  be  the  natu- 
ral protector.  I  will  write  to  my  uncle  to  re- 
turn to  England,  that  he  may  assist  us  in  the 
same  good  work.  ^leanwhile,  I  shall  have  only 
good  tidings  to  communicate  to  Sophy  in  my 
new  hopes  to  discover  her  grandfather  through 
Merle." 

Here,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  Lionel  and  So- 
phy came  in  sight ;  above  their  heads,  the  west- 
ern clouds  bathed  in  gold  and  purple.  Sophy, 
perceiving  George,  bounded  forward,  and  reach- 
ed his  side,  breathless. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Lionel  Haughton  having  lost  liis  heart,  it  is  no  longer  a 
question  what  HE  will  do  with  it.  lint  what  wiil  be 
done  with  it  is  a  very  grave  question  indeed. 

Lionel  forestalled  Lady  Montfort  in  the  del- 
icate and  embarrassing  subject  which  her  cousin 
had  urged  her  to  open.  For  while  George,  lead- 
ing away  Sojihy,  informed  her  of  his  journey  to 
Norwich,  and  his  interview  with  Merle,  Lionel 
drew  Lady  Montfort  into  the  house,  and  with 
much  agitation,  and  in  abrupt,  hurried  accents, 
implored  her  to  withdraw  the  promise  which 
forbade  him  to  inform  his  benefnctor  how^  and 
where  his  time  had  been  spent  of  late.  He 
burst  forth  with  a  declaration  of  that  love  with 
which  Sophy  had  inspired  him,  and  which  Lady 
Montfort  could  not  be  but  prepared  to  hear. 
"Nothing,"  said  he,  "but  a  respect  for  her 
more  than  filial  anxiety  at  this  moment  could 
have  kept  my  heart  thus  long  silent.  But  that 
heart  is  so  deeply  pledged — so  utterly  hers — that 
it  has  grown  an  ingratitude,  a  disrespect  to  my 
generous  kinsman,  to  conceal  from  him  any  lon- 
ger the  feelings  which  must  color  my  whole  fu- 
ture existence.  Nor  can  I  say  to  her,  '  Can 
you  return  my  affection  ? — will  you  listen  to  my 
vo-fts  ? — will  you  accept  them  at  the  altar  ?' — 
until  I  have  won,  as  I  am  sure  to  win,  the  ap- 
proving consent  of  my  more  than  father." 

"  You  feel  sure  to  win  that  consent,  in  spite 
of  the  stain  on  her  grandfather's  name  ?" 

"When  Darrell  learns  that,  but  for  my  poor 
father's  fault,  that  name  might  be  spotless  now 
— yes  !  I  am  not  IMr.  Darrell's  son — the  trans- 
mitter of  his  line.  I  believe  yet  that  he  will 
form  new  ties.  By  my  mother's  side  I  have  no 
ancestors  to  boast  of;  and  you  have  owned  to 
me  that  Sophy's  mother  was  of  gentle  birth. 
Alban  Morley  told  me,  when  I  last  saw  him, 
that  Darrell  wishes  me  to  marry,  and  leaves  me 
free  to  choose  my  bride.  Yes ;"  I  have  no  doubt 
of  ilr.  Darrell's  consent.  My  dear  mother  will 
welcome  to  her  heart  the  prize  so  coveted  by 
mine  ;  and  Charles  Haughton's  son  will  have  a 
place  at  his  hearth  for  the  old  age  of  William 
Losely.  Withdraw  your  interdict  at  once,  dear- 
est Lady  Montfort,  and  confide  to  me  all  that 
you  have -hitherto  left  unexplained,  but  have 
promised  to  reveal  when  the  time  came.  The 
time  has  come." 

"  It  has  come,"  said  Lady  Montfort,  solemn- 
ly ;  "and  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  bear  the 
blessed  results  which  vrere  in  mv  thoughts  when 
P 


I  took  Sophy  as  my  own  adopted  daughter,  and 
hailed  in  yourself  the  reconciler  of  conflicting 
circumstance.  Not  under  this  roof  should  you 
woo  William  Losely's  grandchild.  Doubly  arc 
you  bound  to  ask  Guy  Darrell's  consent  and 
blessing.  At  his  hearth  woo  your  Sophy — at 
his  hands  ask  a  bride  in  his  daughter's  child." 
And  to  her  wondering  listener,  Caroline  Mont- 
fort told  her  grounds  for  the  belief  that  con- 
nected the  last  of  the  Darrells  with  the  convict's 
grandchild. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Credulous  ciystal-seers,  j-oung  lovers,  and  grave  wise 
men — all  in  the  same  category. 

George  Morlet  set  out  the  next  day  for  Nor- 
wich, in  which  antique  city,  ever  since  the  Dane 
peo]jled  it,  some  wizard  or  witch,  star-reader,  or 
crystal-seer  has  enjoyed  a  mysterious  renown, 
perpetuating  thus  through  allchange  inour  land's 
social  progress  the  long  line  of  Vala  and  Saga, 
who  came  with  the  Raven  and  Valkyr  from  the 
Scandinavian  ])ine  shores.  Merle's  reserve  van- 
ished on  the  perusal  of  Sophy's  letter  to  him. 
He  informed  George  that  Waife  declared  he  had 
plent}'  of  money,  and  had  even  forced  a  loan 
upon  Jlerle ;  but  that  he  liked  an  active,  wan- 
dering life  ;  it  kept  him  from  thinking,  and  that 
a  peddler's  pack  would  give  him  a  license  for  va- 
grancy, and  a  budget  to  defray  its  expenses ; 
that  Merle  had  been  consulted  b)-  him  in  the 
choice  of  light  popular  wares,  and  as  to  the  route 
he  might  find  the  most  free  from  competing 
rivals.  Merle  willingly  agreed  to  accompany 
George  in  quest  of  the  wanderer,  whom,  by  the 
help  of  his  crystal,  he  seemed  calmly  sure  he 
could  track  raid  discover.  Accordingly,  they 
both  set  out  in  the  somewhat  devious  and  de- 
sultory road  which  Merle,  who  had  some  old 
acquaintances  among  the  ancient  profession  of 
hawkers,  had  advised  Waife  to  take.  But  Merle, 
unhappily  confiding  more  in  his  crystal  than 
Waife's  steady  adherence  to  the  chart  prescribed, 
led  the  Oxford  scholar  the  life  of  a  will-of- 
the-wisp  ;  zigzag,  and  shooting  to  and  fro,  here 
and  there,  till,  just  when  George  had  lost  all 
patience,  Jlerle  chanced  to  see,  not  in  the  crj's- 
tal,  a.  pelerine  on  the  neck  of  a  fiirmer's  daugh- 
ter, wdiich  he  was  morally  certain  he  had  him- 
self selected  for  Waife's  pannier.  And  the  girl 
stating,  in  reply  to  his  inquiry,  that  her  father 
had  bought  that  pelerine  as  a  present  for  her, 
not  many  days  before,  of  a  peddler  in  a  neighbor- 
ing town,  to  the  market  of  which  the  farmer  re- 
sorted weekly,  ^lerle  cast  a  horary  scheme,  and 
finding  the  Third  House  (of  short  joui'neys)  in 
favorable  aspect  to  the  Seventh  House  (contain- 
ing the  object  desired),  and  in  conjunction  with 
the  Eleventh  House  (friends),  he  gravely  inform- 
ed the  scholar  that  their  toils  were  at  an  end,  and 
that  the  Hour  and  the  Man  were  at  hand.  Not 
oversanguine,  George  consigned  himself  and 
the  seer  to  an  early  train,  and  reached  the  fa- 
mous town  of  Ouzelford,  whither,  when  the 
chronological  order  of  our  narrative  (which  we 
have  so  far  somewhat  forestalled)  will  permit, 
we  shall  conduct  the  inquisitive  reader. 

IMeanwhile  Lionel,  subscribing  without  a  mur- 
mur to  Lady  ilontfort's  injunction  to  see  Sophy- 
no  more  till  Darrell  had  been  conferred  with 


226 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


and  his  consent  won,  returned  to  his  lodgings 
in  London,  sanguine  of  success  and  flushed  with 
joy.  His  intention  was  to  set  out  at  once  to 
Fawlev  ;  but  on  reaching  town  he  found  there 
a  few  lines  from  Darrell  himself,  in  reftly  to  a 
long  and  affectionate  letter  which  Lionel  had 
written  a  few  days  before,  asking  permission  to 
visit  the  old  manor-house ;  for  amidst  all  his  ab- 
sorbing love  for  Sophy,  the  image  of  his  lonely 
benefactor  in  that  gloomy  hermitage  often  rose 
before  him.  In  these  lines  Darrell,  not  unkind- 
ly, but  very  peremptorily,  declined  Lionel's  over- 
tures. "In  truth,  my  dear  young  kinsman," 
T\T0te  the  recluse — "in  truth  I  am,  with  slow- 
ness, and  with  frequent  relapses,  laboring  through 
convalescence  from  a  moral  fever.  My  nen'es 
are  yet  unstrung.  I  am  as  one  to  whom  is  pre- 
scribed the  most  complete  repose — the  visits, 
even  of  friends  the  dearest,  forbidden  as  a  peril- 
ous excitement.  The  sight  of  you — of  any  one 
from  the  great  world — but  especiallyof  one  whose 
rich  vitality  of  youth  and  hope  affronts  and  mocks 
my  own  fiitigued  exhaustion,  would  but  irritate, 
unsettle,  torture  me.  When  I  am  quite  well  I 
will  ask  you  to  come.  I  shall  enjoy  your  visit. 
Till  then,  on  no  account,  and  on  no  pretext,  let 
my  morbid  ear  catch  the  sound  of  your  footfall 
on  my  quiet  floor.  Write  to  me  often,  but  tell 
me  nothing  of  the  news  and  gossip  of  the  world. 
Tell  me  only  of  yourself,  your  studies,  your 
thoughts,  your  sentiments,  your  wishes.  Nor 
forget  my  injunctions.  Marry  young,  marry  for 
love  ;  let  no  ambition  of  power,  no  greed  of  gold, 
ever  mislead  you  into  giving  to  j-our  life  a  com- 
pa;;ion  who  is  not  the  half  of  your  soul.  Choose 
with  the  heart  of  a  man ;  I  know  that  you  will 
choose  with  the  self-esteem  of  a  gentleman  ;  and 
be  assured  beforehand  of  the  sympathy  and  sanc- 
tion of  your 

"  Churlish  but  LovrsG  Kixsmax." 

After  this  letter,  Lionel  felt  that,  at  all  events, 
he  could  not  at  once  proceed  to  the  old  manor- 
house  in  defiance  of  its  owner's  prohibition.  He 
wrote  briefly,  entreating  Darrell  to  forgive  him 
if  he  persisted  in  the  prayer  to  be  received  at 
Fawley,  stating  that  his  desire  for  a  personal 
interview  was  now  suddenly  become  special  and 
urgent;  tliat  it  not  only  concerned  himself,  but 
affected  his  benefactor.  By  return  of  post  Dar- 
rell replied  with  curt  frigidity,  repeating,  with 
even  sternness,  his  refusal  to  receive  Lionel,  but 
professing  himself  ready  to  attend  to  all  that  his 
kinsman  might  address  to  him  by  letter.  '"If 
it  be  as  you  state,"  wrote  Darrell,  with  his  ha- 
bitual irony,  "  a  matter  that  relates  to  myself, 
I  claim,  as  a  lawyer  for  my  own  affairs — the  pre- 
caution I  once  enjoined  to  my  clients — a  written 
brief  should  always  precede  a  personal  consult- 
ation." 

In  fact,  the  proud  man  suspected  that  Lionel 
had  been  directly  or  indirectly  addressed  on  be- 
half of  Jasper  Losely ;  and  certainly  that  was 
the  last  subject  on  which  he  would  have  grant- 
ed an  inteniew  to  his  young  kinsman.  Lionel, 
however,  was  not  perhaj)s  sorry  to  be  thus  com- 
pelled to  tiT.st  to  writing  his  own  and  Sophy's 
cause.  Darrell  was  one  of  those  men  whose 
presence  insjures  a  certain  awe  —  one  of  those 
men  whom  we  feel,  upon  great  occasions,  less 
embarrassed  to  address  by  letter  than  in  person. 
Lionel's  pen  moved  rapidly — his  whole  heart 


and  soul  suffused  with  feeling,  and,  rushing  over 
the  page,  he  reminded  Darrell  of  the  day  when 
he  had  told  to  the  rich  man  the  tale  of  the  love- 
ly wandering  child,  and  how,  out  of  his  s}Tnpathy 
for  that  child,  Darrell's  apjiroving.  fostering  ten- 
derness to  himself  had  grown.  Thus  indirectly 
to  her  forlorn  condition  had  he  owed  the  rise  in 
his  own  fortunes.  He  went  through  the  story 
of  William  Losely  as  he  had  gathered  it  from 
Alban  ^lorley,  and  touched  pathetically  on  his 
own  father's  share  in  that  dark  history.  If  Will- 
iam Losely  really  was  hurried  into  crime  by  the 
tempting  necessity  for  a  comparatively  trifling 
sum,  but  for  Charles  Haughton,  would  the  ne- 
cessity have  arisen  ?  Eloquently  then  the  lover 
united  grandfather  and  grandchild  in  one  touch- 
ing picture — their  love  for  eaclt-other,  their  de- 
pendence on  each  other.  He  enlarged  on  Sophy's 
charming,  unselfish,  simple,  noble  character ; 
he  told  how  he  had  again  found  her ;  he  dwelt 
on  the  refining  accomplishments  she  owed  to 
Lady  Montfort's  care.  How  came  she  with  Lady 
Montfort  ?  Why  had  Lady  Montfort  cherished, 
adopted  her  ?  Because  Lady  Montfort  told  him 
how  much  her  own  childhood  had  owed  to  Dar- 
rell ;  because,  should  Sophy  be,  as  alleged,  the 
offspring  of  his  daughter,  the  heiress  of  his  line, 
Caroline  Montfort  rejoiced  to  guard  her  from 
danger,  save  her  from  poverty,  and  ultimately 
thus  to  fit  her  to  be  not  only  acknowledged  with 
delight,  but  with  pride.  Why  had  he  been  en- 
joined not  to  divulge  to  Darrell  that  he  had  again 
found,  and  under  Lady  ^lontfort's  roof,  the  child 
whom,  while  yet  unconscious  of  her  claims,  Dar- 
rell himself  had  vainly  sought  to  find,  and  be- 
nevolently designed  to  succor?  Because  Lady 
^lontfort  wished  to  fulfill  her  task  —  complete 
Sophy's  education,  interrupted  by  grief  for  her 
missing  grandfather,  and  obtain  indeed,  when 
William  Losely  again  returned,  some  proofs  (if 
such  existed)  to  corroborate  the  assertion  of 
Sophy's  parentage.  "And,"  added  Lionel, 
"Lady  ISIontfort  seems  to  fear  that  she  has  giv- 
en you  some  cause  of  displeasure — what  I  know 
not,  but  which  might  have  induced  you  to  dis- 
approve of  the  acquaintance  I  had  begun  with 
her.  Be  that  as  it  may,  v.ould  you  could  hear 
the  reverence  with  which  she  ever  alludes  to 
your  worth — the  gratitude  with  which  she  attests 
her  mother's  and  her  own  early  obligations  to 
your  intellect  and  heart !"  Finally,  Lionel  wove 
all  his  threads  of  recital  into  the  confession  of 
the  deep  love  into  which  his  romantic  memories 
of  Sophy's  wandering  childhood  had  been  ripen- 
ed by  the  sight  of  her  graceful,  cultured  youth. 
"  Grant,"  he  said,  "that  her  father's  tale  be  false 
— and  no  doubt  you  have  sufficient  reasons  to 
discredit  it — still,  if  you  can  not  love  her  as 
your  daughter's- child,  receive,  know  her,  I  im- 
]dore — let  her  love  and  revere  you — as  my  wife ! 
Leave  me  to  protect  her  from  a  lawless  father — 
leave  me  to  redeem,  by  some  deeds  of  loyalty 
and  honor,  any  stain  that  her  grandsire's  sen- 
tence may  seem  to  fix  upon  our  union.  Oil !  if 
ambitious  before,  how  ambitious  I  should  be  now 
— to  efface,  for  her  sake  as  for  mine,  her  grand- 
sire's  sliame,  my  father's  en-ors !  But  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  should,  on  the  requisite  inqui- 
ries, be  ])roved  to  descend  from  your  ancestry — 
3'our  father's  blood  in  her  pure  veins — I  know, 
alas!  then  that  I  should  have  no  right  to  aspire 
to  such  nuptials.     Who  would  even  think  of  her 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


227 


descent  from  a  William  Losely  ?  Who  would 
not  be  too  proud  to  remember  only  her  descent 
from  you  ?  All  spots  would  vanish  in  the  splen- 
dor of  your  renown ;  the  highest  in  the  land 
would  court  her  alliance.  And  I  am  but  the 
pensioner  of  your  bounty,  and  only  on  my  father's 
side  of  gentle  origin.  But  still  I  think  you  would 
not  reject  me — you  would  place  the  future  to  my 
credit ;  and  I  would  wait,  wait  patiently,  till  I 
hud  won  such  a  soldier's  name  as  would  entitle 
me  to  mate  with  a  daughter  of  the  Darrells." 

Sheet  upon'  sheet  the  young  eloquence  flowed 
on— seeking,  with  an  art  of  which  the  writer 
was  unconscious,  all  the  arguments  and  points 
of  view  which  might  be  the  most  captivating  to 
the  superb  jiride  or  to  the  exquisite  tenderness 
which  seemed  to  Lionel  the  ruling  elements  of 
Darrell's  character. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long  for  a  reply.  At  the 
first  glance  of  the  address  on  its  cover  his  mind 
misgave  him ;  the  hopes  that  had  hitherto  elated 
his  spirit  yielded  to  abrupt  forebodings.  Dar- 
rell's handwriting  was  habitually  in  harmony 
with  the  intonations  of  his  voice  —  singularly 
clear,  formed  with  a  peculiar  and  original  ele- 
gance, yet  with  the  undulating  ease  of  a  natu- 
ral, candid,  impulsive  character.  And  that 
decorous  care  in  such  mere  trifles  as  the  very 
sealing  of  a  letter,  which,  neglected  by  musing 
poets  and  abstracted  authors,  is  observable  in 
men  of  high  public  station,  was  in  Guy  Darrell 
significant  of  the  Patrician  dignity  that  im- 
parted a  certain  stateliness  to  his  most  ordinary 
actions. 

But  in  the  letter  which  lay  in  Lionel's  hand 
the  writer  was  scarcely  recognizable — the  di- 
rection blurred,  the  characters  dashed  off  from 
a  pen  fierce  yet  tremulous ;  the  seal  a  great 
blotch  of  wax  ;  the  device  of  the  heron,  with  its 
soaring  motto,  indistinct  and  mangled,  as  if  the 
stamping  instrument  had  been  i)lucked  wrath- 
fully  away  before  the  wax  had  cooled.  And 
when  Lionel  opened  the  letter,  the  handwriting 
M'ithin  was  yet  more  indicative  of  mental  dis- 
order. The  very  ink  looked  menacing  and 
angry — blacker  as  the  pen  had  been  forcibly 
driven  into  the  page. 

'■L'nhappy  boy!"  began  the  ominous  epistle, 
"is  it  through  you  that  the  false  and  detested 
woman  who  has  withered  up  the  noonday  of 
my  life  seeks  to  dishonor  its  blighted  close  ? 
Talk  not  to  me  of  Lady  Montfort's  gratitude 
and  reverence !  Talk  not  to  me  of  her  amiable, 
tender,  holy  aim,  to  obtrude  upon  my  childless 
house  the  grand-daughter  of  a  convicted  felon  ! 
Show  her  these  lines,  and  ask  her  by  what 
knowledge  of  my  nature  she  can  assume  that 
ignominy  to  my  name  would  be  a  blessing  to 
my  hearth  ?  Ask  her,  indeed,  how  she  can 
dare  to  force  herself  still  u]>on  my  thoughts — 
dare  to  imagine  she  can  lay  me  under  obliga- 
tions—dare to  think  she  can  be  a  something 
still  in  my  forlorn  existence !  Lionel  Haun-hton, 
I  command  you,  in  the  name  of  all  the  dead 
whom  we  can  claim  as  ancestors  in  common,  to 
tear  from  j'our  heart,  as  you  would  tear  a  thou  dit 
of  disgrace,  this  image  which  has  bewitched 
your  reason.  Jly  daughter,  thank  Heaven,  left 
no  pledge  of  an  execrable  union.  Bat  a  girl 
who  has  been  brought  up  by  a  thief — a  girl 
whom  a  wretch  so  lost  to  honor  as  Jasjier  Losely 
sought  to  make  an  instrument  of  fraud  to  my 


harassment  and  disgrace,  be  her  virtues  and 
beauty  what  they  may,  I  could  not,  without  in- 
tolerable anguish,  contemplate  as  the  wife  of 
Lionel  Haughton.  But  receive  her  as  your  wife  ! 
Admit  her  within  these  walls!  Never,  never; 
I  scorn  to  threaten  you  with  loss  of  favor,  loss 
of  fortune.  Marry  her  if  you  will.  You  shall 
have  an  ample  income  secured  to  you.  But 
from  that  moment  our  lives  are  separated — our 
relation  ceases.  You  will  never  agqin  see  nor 
address  me.  But  oh,  Lionel !  can  you — can  you 
inflict  upon  me  this  crowning  sorrow?  Can 
you,  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  of  whom  you  have 
seen  but  little,  or  in  the  Quixotism  of  atone- 
ment for  your  father's  fault,  complete  the  in- 
gratitude I  have  experienced  from  those  who 
owed  me  most  ?  I  can  not  think  it.  I  rejoice 
that  you  wrote — did  not  urge  this  suit  in  per- 
son. I  should  not  have  been  able  to  control  my 
jjassion ;  we  might  have  parted  foes.  As  it  is, 
I  restrain  myself  with  difficulty  !  That  woman, 
that  child,  associated  thus  to  tear  from  me  the 
last  affection  left  to  my  ruined  heart!  No! 
You  will  not  be  so  cruel !  Send  this,  I  com- 
mand you,  to  Lady  IMontfort.  See  again  neither 
her  nor  the  impostor  she  has  been  cherishing 
for  my  disgrace .  This  letter  will  be  your  excuse 
to  break  off  with  both — with  both  !  ' 

"Guy  Dakrell." 

Lionel  was  stunned.  Not  for  several  hours 
could  he  recover  self-possession  enough  to  ana- 
lyze his  own  emotions,  or  discern  the  sole  course 
that  lay  before  him.  After  such  a  letter  from 
such  a  benefactor,  no  option  was  left  to  him. 
Sophy  must  be  resigned  ;  but  the  sacrifice  crushed 
him  to  the  earth — crushed  the  ver}'  manhood 
out  of  him.  He  threw  himself  on  the  floor, 
sobbing— sobbing,  as  if  body  and  soul  were  torn, 
each  from  each,  in  convulsive  spasms. 

But  send  this  letter  to  Lady  Montfort !  A 
letter  so  wholly  at  variance  with  Darrell's  dig- 
nity of  character — a  letter  in  which  rage  seemed 
lashed  to  unreasoning  frenzy  !  Such  bitter  lan- 
guage of  hate  and  scorn,  and  even  insult,  to  a 
woman,  and  to  the  very  woman  who  had  seemed 
to  Lionel  so  reverently  to  cherish  the  writer's 
name — so  tenderly  to  scheme  for  the  writer's 
happiness !  Could  he  obey  a  command  that 
seemed  to  lower  Darrell  even  more  than  it  could 
himible  her  to  whom  it  was  to  be  sent? 

Yet  disobey !  What  but  the  letter  itself  could 
explain!  Ah — and  was  there  not  some  strange 
misunderstanding  with  respect  to  Lady  INIont- 
fort,  which  tlie  letter  itself,  and  nothing  but  the 
letter,  would  enable  her  to  dispel ;  and  if  dis- 
pelled, might  not  Darrell's  whole  mind  undergo 
a  change  ?  A  flash  of  joy  suddenly  broke  on 
his  agitated,  tempestuous  thoughts.  Ho  forced 
himself  again  to  read  those  blotted,  impetuous 
lines.  Evidently — evidently,  while  writing  to 
Lionel — the  subject  Sop>hy — the  man's  wrathful 
heart  had  been  addressing  itself  to  neither.  A 
suspicion  seized  him  ;  with  tliat  susjjicion,  hope. 
He  would  send  the  letter,  and  with  but  few 
words  from  himself — words  that  revealed  his 
immense  despair  at  the  thought  of  relinquishing 
Sophy — intimated  his  belief  tluit  Dan-ell  here 
was,  from  some  error  of  judgment  which  Lio- 
nel could  not  com])rehend,  avenging  himself  on 
Lady  Montfort;  and  closed  with  his  prayer  to 
her,  if  so,  to  forgive  lines  colored  by  hasty  pas- 


228 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


sion,  and,  for  the  sake  of  all,  not  to  disdain 
that  self-vindication  which  might  perhaps  yet 
soften  a  nature  possessed  of  such  dcjjths  of 
sweetness  as  that  which  appeared  now  so  cruel 
and  so  bitter!  He  would  not  yet  despond — not 
yet  commission  her  to  <^ive  his  last  farewell  to 
Sophy. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Man-eater  continues  to  take  his  quiet  steak  out  of 
Dolly  Poole,  and  is  in  turn  subjected  to  the  anatomical 
knife  of  the  dissecting  Author.  Two  traps  are  laid  for 
him — one  by  his  fellow  Man-eaters — one  by  that  dead- 
ly persecutrix,  the  Woman  who  tries  to  save  him  in 
spite  of  all  he  can  do  to  be  hanged. 

Meanwhile  the  unhappy  Adolphus  Poole 
had  been  the  reluctant  but  unfailing  source 
from  which  Jasper  Losely  had  weekly  drawn 
the  supplies  to  his  worthless  and  workless  exist- 
ence. Never,  was  a  man  more  constrainedly  be- 
nevolent, and  less  recompensed  for  pecuniary 
sacrifice  by  applauding  conscience,  thaia  the 
doomed  inhabitant  of  Alhambra  Villa.  In  the 
utter  failure  of  his  attempts  to  discover  Sophy, 
or  to  induce  Jasper  to  accept  Colonel  Morley's 
proposals,  he  saw  this  parasital  monster  fixed 
upon  his  entrails,  like  the  vulture  on  those  of 
the  classic  sufferer  in  mythological  tales.  Jas- 
per, indeed,  had  accommodated  himself  to  this 
regular  and  unlaborious  mode  of  gaining  ^^  sa 
pauvra  vie."  To  call  once  a  week  upon  his  old 
acquaintance,  frighten  him  with  a  few  threats, 
or  force  a  death-like  smile  from  agonizing  lijjs 
by  a  few  villainous  jokes,  carry  off  his  four  sov- 
ereigns, and  enjoy  himself  thereon  till  pay-day 
duly  returned,  was  a  condition  of  things  that  Jas- 
per did  not  greatly  care  to  improve ;  and  truly  had 
he  said  to  Poole  that  his  earlier  energy  had  left 
him.  As  a  sensualist  of  Jasper's  stamp  grows 
older  and  falls  lower,  indolence  gradually  usurps 
the  place  once  occupied  by  vanity  or  ambition. 
Jasper  was  bitterly  aware  that  his  old  comeli- 
ness was  gone;  that  never  more  could  he  en- 
snare a  maiden's  heart  or  a  widow's  gold.  And 
when  this  truth  was  fully  brought  home  to  him, 
it  made  a  strange  revolution  in  all  his  habits.  He 
cared  no  longer  for  dress  and  gewgaws — sought 
rather  to  hide  himself  than  to  parade.  In  the 
neglect  of  the  person  he  had  once  so  idolized— 
in  the  coarse  roughness  which  now  characterized 
his  exterior — there  was  that  sullen  despair  which 
the  vain  only  know  when  what  had  made  them 
dainty  and  jocund  is  gone  forever.  The  liuman 
mind,  in  deteriorating,  fits  itself  to  the  sj)here 
into  which  it  declines.  Jasper  would  not  now, 
if  he  could,  have  driven  a  cal)riolet  down  St. 
James's  Street.  He  had  taken  more  and  more 
to  the  vice  of  drinking  as  the  excitement  of 
gambling  was  withdrawn  from  him.  For  how 
gamlile  with  those  who  had  notliing  to  lose,  and 
to  whom  he  himself  would  liavc  been  pigeon, 
not  hawk?  And  as  ho  found  that,  on  what  he 
thus  drew  regularly  from  Dolly  Poole,  he  could 
command  all  the  comforts  that  his  inibruted 
tastes  now  desired,  so  an  odd  kind  of  ])rudence, 
for  the  first  time  in  liis  life,  came  with  what 
he  chose  to  consider  "a  settled  income."  He 
mixed  with  ruffians  in  their  niglitly  orgies ; 
treated  them  to  cheap  potations  ;  swaggered, 
bullied,  boasted,  but  shared  in  no  jjroject  of 


theirs  vvliich  might  bring  into  jeopardy  the  life 
which  Dolly  Poole  rendered  so  comfortable  and 
secure.  His  energies,  once  so  restless,  were 
lulled,  j)artly  by  habitual  intoxication,  partly  by 
tlie  physical  pains  which  had  nestled  themselves 
into  his  robust  fibres,  eftbrts  of  an  immense  and 
still  tenacious  vitality  to  throw  ofi'  diseases  re- 
pugnant to  its  native  magnificence  of  health. 
The  finest  constitutions  are  those  which,  when 
once  seriously  im])aired,  occasion  the  direst 
pain ;  but  they  also  enable  the  suflPerer  to  bear 
pain  that  would  soon  wear  away  the  delicate. 
And  Jasper  bore  his  pains  stoutly,  though  at 
times  they  so  exasperated  his  temper,  that  woe 
then  to  any  of  his  comrades  whose  want  of  cau- 
tion or  i-espect  gave  him  the  occasion  to  seek  re- 
lief in  wrath!  His  hand  was  asTieavy,  liis  arm 
as  stalwart  as  ever.  George  Morley  had  been 
rightly  informed.  Even  by  burglars  and  cut- 
throats, whose  dangers  he  shunned,  while  fear- 
lessly he  joined  their  circle,  Jasper  Losely  was 
regarded  with  terror.  To  be  the  awe  of  reck- 
less men,  as  he  had  been  the  admiration  of  fool- 
ish women,  this  was  delight  to  his  vanity — the 
last  delight  that  was  left  to  it.  But  he  thus  pro- 
voked a  danger  to  which  his  arrogance  was  blind. 
His  boon  companions  began  to  grow  tired  of 
him.  He  had  been  welcomed  to  their  resort  on 
the  strength  of  the  catch-word  or  passport  which 
confederates  at  Paris  had  communicated  to  him, 
and  of  the  reputation  for  great  daring  and  small 
scruple  which  he  took  from  Cutts,  who  was  of 
high  caste  among  their  mysterious  tribes,  and 
who  every  now  and  then  flitted  over  the  Conti- 
nent, safe  and  accursed  as  the  Wandering  Jew. 
But  when  they  found  that  this  Achilles  of  the 
Greeks  would  only  talk  big,  and  employ  his  wits 
on  his  private  exchequer  and  his  thews  against 
themselves,  they  began  not  only  to  tire  of  his 
imperious  manner,  but  to  doubt  his  fidelity  to 
the  cause.  And  all  of  a  sudden,  Cutts,  who 
had  at  first  extolled  Jasjjcr  as  one  likely  to  be  a 
valuable  acquisition  to  the  Family  of  Night,  al- 
tered his  tone,  and  insinuated  that  the  bravo 
was  not  to  be  trusted  ;  that  his  reckless  temper 
and  incautious  talk  when  drunk  would  unfit  him 
for  a  safe  accomplice  in  any  skillful  project  of 
plunder;  and  that  he  was  so  unscrupulous,  and 
had  so  little  sympathy  with  their  class,  that  he 
might  be  quite  capable  of  playing  spy  or  turning 
king's  evidence ;  that,  in  short,  it  would  be  well 
to  rid  themselves  of  his  domineering  presence. 
Still  there  was  that  j)hysical  power  in  this  lazy 
Hercules — still,  if  the  Do-naught,  he  w^as  so 
fiercely  the  Dread-naught — that  they  did  not 
dare,  despite  the  advantage  of  numbers,  openly 
to  brave  and  defy  him.  ^Jo  one  would  bell  the 
cat — and  such  a  cat  I  They  began  to  lay  plots 
to  get  rid  of  him  through  the  law.  Nothing 
could  be  easier  to  such  knowing  adepts  in  guilt 
than  to  transfer  to  his  charge  any  deed  of  vio- 
lence one  of  their  own  gang  had  committed — 
heap  damning  circumstances  round  him — privi- 
ly apprise  justice — falsely  swear  away  his  life. 
In  short,  the  man  was  in  their  way,  as  a  wasp 
that  has  blundered  into  an  ant's  nest;  and, 
while  frightened  at  the  size  of  the  intruder, 
these  honest  ants  were  resolved  to  get  him  out 
of  their  citadel  alive  or  dead.  Probable  it  was 
that  Jasper  Losely  w^ould  meet  with  his  deserts 
at  last  for  an  ottense  of  which  he  was  innocent 
as  a  babe  unborn. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


229 


It  is  at  this  juncture  that  we  are  readmitted 
to  the  presence  of  Arabella  Crane. 

She  was  standing  by  a  window  on  the  upper 
floor  of  a  house  situated  in  a  narrow  street.  The 
blind  was  let  down,  but  she  had  drawn  it  a  little 
aside,  and  was  looking  out.  By  the  fireside  was 
seated  a  thin,  vague,  gnome-like  figure,  perched 
comfortless  on  the  edge  of  a  rush-bottomed  chair, 
with  its  shadowy  knees  drawn  up  till  they  near- 
ly touched  its  shadowy  chin.  There  was  some- 
thing about  the  outline  of  this  figure  so  indefin- 
ite and  unsubstantial,  that  you  might  have  taken 
it  for  an  optical  illusion,  a  spectral  apparition 
on  the  \)oint  of  vanishing.  This  thing  was.  how- 
ever, possessed  of  voice,  and  was  speaking  in  a 
low  but  distinct  hissing  whisjier.  As  the  whis- 
per ended,  Arabella  Crane,  without  turning  her 
face,  spoke,  also  under  her  breath. 

"You  are  sure  that,  so  long  as  Losely  draws 
this  v,-eekly  stipend  from  the  man  whom  he  has 
in  his  power,  he  will  persist  in  the  same  course 
of  life.     Can  you  not  warn  him  of  the  danger  ?" 

'•Peach  against  pals!  I  dare  not.  No  trust- 
ing him.  He  would  come  down,  mad  with 
brandy,  make  an  infernal  row,  seize  two  or 
three  by  the  throat,  dash  their  heads  against 
each  other,  blab,  bully,  and  a  knife  w'ould  be 
out,  and  a  weasand  or  two  cut,  and  a  carcass  or 
so  drop])ed  into  the  Thames,  mine  certainly — 
his  perhaps." 

"  You  say  you  can  keep  back  this  plot  against 
him  for  two  or  three  days  ?" 

"For  two  days— yes.  I  should  be  glad  to 
save  General  Jas.  He  has  the  bones  of  a  fine 
fellow,  and  if  he  had  not  destroyed  himself  by 
brandy,  he  might  have  been  at  the  top  of  the 
tree— in  the  ])rofession.  But  he  is  fit  for  no- 
thing now." 

"  Ah !  and  you  say  the  brand}'  is  killing  him  ?" 

"Xo,  he  will  not  be  killed  by  brandy,  if  he 
continues  to  drink  it  among  the  same  jolly  set." 

"And  if  he  were  left  without  the  money  to 
spend  among  these  terrible  companions,  he 
would  no  longer  resort  to  their  meetings  ?  You 
are  right  there.  The  same  vanity  that  makes 
him  pleased  to  be  the  great  man  in  that  society 
would  make  him  shrink  from  coming  among 
them  as  a  beggar." 

"And  if  he  had  not  the  wherewithal  to  pay 
the  weekly  subscrijnion,  there  would  be  an  ex- 
cuse to  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  All  these  fel- 
lows wish  to  do  is  to  get  rid  of  him  ;  and  if  by  fair 
means,  there  would  be  no  necessity  to  resort  to 
foul.  The  only  danger  would  be  that  from  which 
you  have  so  often  saved  him.  In  despair  would 
he  not  commit  some  violent,  rash  action — a 
street-robbery,  or  something  of  the  kind?  He 
has  courage  for  any  violence,  but  no  longer  the 
cool  head  to  plan  a  scheme  which  would  not  be 
detected.  Y'ou  see  I  can  prevent  mj'  pals  join- 
ing in  such  risks  as  he  may  propose,  or  letting 
him  (if  he  were  to  ask  it)  into  any  adventure 
of  their  own,  for  they  know  that  I  am  a  safe  ad- 
viser ;  they  respect  me  ;  the  law  has  never  been 
able  to  lay  hold  of  me  ;  and  when  I  say  to  them, 
'That  fellow  drinks,  blabs,  and  boasts,  and  would 
bring  us  all  into  trouble,'  they  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him  ;  but  I  can  not  prevent  his  doing 
what  he  pleases  out  of  his  own  muddled  head, 
and  with  his  own  reckless  hand." 

"  But  you  will  keep  in  his  confidence,  and  let 
me  know  all  that  he  proposes?" 


"l''es." 

"  And  meanwhile  he  must  come  to  me.  And 
this  time  I  have  more  hope  than  ever,  since  his 
health  gives  way,  and  he  is  weary  of  crime  it- 
self. Mr.  Cutts,  come  near  —  softly.  Look — 
nay,  nay,  he  can  not  see  you  from  below,  and 
you  are  screened  by  the  bhnd.  Look,  I  say, 
where  he  sits." 

She  pointed  to  a  room  on  the  ground-floor  in 
the  opposite  house,  where  might  be  dimly  seen 
a  dull,  red  fire  in  a  sordid  grate,  and  a  man's 
form,  the  head  ijillowed  upon  arms  that  rested 
on  a  small  table.     On  the  table  a  glass,  a  bottle. 

"It  is  thus  that  his  mornings  pass,"  said  Ara- 
bella Crane,  with  a  wild,  bitter  pity  in  the  tone 
of  her  voice.  "Look,  I  say,  is  he  formidable 
now  ?  can  you  fear  him  ?" 

"  Very  much  indeed,"  muttered  Cntts.  "  He 
is  only  stupefied,  and  he  can  shake  off  a  doze  as 
quickly  as  a  biill-dog  does  when  a  rat  is  let  into 
his  kennel." 

"Mr.  Cutts,  you  tell  me  that  he  constantly 
carries  about  him  the  same  old  ]:ocket-book 
which  he  says  contains  his  fortune;  in  other 
words,  the  papers  that  frighten  his  victim  into 
giving  him  the  money  which  is  now  the  cause 
of  his  danger.  There  is  surely  no  pocket  3'ou 
can  not  pick  or  get  picked,  Mr.  Cutts  ?  Fifty 
pounds  for  that  book  in  three  hours." 

"Fifty  pounds  are  not  enough  ;  the  man  he 
sponges  on  would  give  more  to  have  those  pa- 
pers in  his  power." 

"Possibly;  but  Losely  has  not  been  dolt 
enough  to  trust  you  sufficiently  to  enable  you  to 
know  how  to  commence  negotiations.  Even  if 
the  man's  name  and  address  be  among  those  pa- 
pers, you  could  not  make  use  of  the  knowledge 
without  bringing  Jasper  himself  upon  you  ;  and 
even  if  Jasper  were  out  of  the  way,  you  would 
not  have  the  same  hold  over  his  victim :  you 
know  not  the  circumstances ;  you  could  make 
no  story  out  of  some  incoherent  rambling  let- 
ters ;  and  the  man,  who,  I  can  tell  you,  is  by 
nature  a  +)ully,  and  strong,  compared  with  any 
other  man  but  Jasper,  would  seize  you  by  the 
collar  ;  and  you  would  be  lucky  if  you  got  out 
of  his  house  with  no  other  loss  than  the  letters, 
and  no  other  gain  but  a  broken  bone.  Pooh! 
you  know  all  that,  or  you  would  have  stolen  the 
book,  and  made  use  of  it  before.  Fifty  pounds 
for  that  book  in  three  hours ;  and  if  Jasper 
Losely  be  safe  and  alive  six  months  hence,  fifty 
pounds  more,  Mr.  Cutts.  See!  he  stirs  not — 
he  must  be  fast  asleep.     Now  is  the  moment." 

"AVhat,  in  his  own  room!"  said  Cutts,  with 
contempt.  "Why,  he  would  know  who  did  it; 
and  where  should  I  be  to-morrow  ?  No — in  the 
streets ;  any  one  has  a  right  to  pick  a  pocket  in 
the  Queen's  highways.  In  three  hours  you  shall 
have  the  book." 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

Jlercury  i3  the  Patron  Deity  of  Mercantile  Speculators, 
as  well  as  of  crack-brained  Poets;  indeed,  he  is  much 
more  favorable,  more  a  friend  at  a  pinch,  to  the  former 
class  of  his  proteges  than  he  is  to  the  latter. 
"PooLrii  per  hoftes  Mercurius  celer 
DenbO  paventem  su-tulit  aere." 

Poole  was  sitting  with  his  wife  after  dinner. 
He  had  made  a  good  speculation  that  day  ;  little 


330 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Johnny  would  be  all  the  better  for  it  a  few  years 
hence,  and  some  other  man's  little  Johnnys  all 
the  worse — but  each  for  himself  in  this  world ! 
Poole  was  therefore  basking  in  the  light  of  his 
gentle  helpmate's  approving  smile.  He  had 
taken  an  extra  glass  of  a  venerable  port-wine, 
which  had  passed  to  his  cellar  from  the  bins  of 
Uncle  Sam.  Commercial  prosperity  without, 
conjugal  felicity  within,  the  walls  of  Alhambra 
Villa;  surely  Adolphus  Poole  is  an  enviable  man  I 
Does  he  look  so  ?  The  ghost  of  what  he  was 
but  a  few  months  ago!  His  cheeks  have  fallen 
in  ;  his  clothes  hang  on  him  like  bags ;  there  is 
a  won-ied,  haggard  look  in  his  eyes,  a  nervous 
twitch  in  his  lips,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
looks  at  the  handsome  Parisian  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece,  and  then  shifts  his  posture,  snubs 
his  connubial  angel,  who  asks  "what  ails  him?" 
refills  his  glass,  and  stares  on  the  fire,  seeing 
strange  shapes  in  the  mobile  aspects  of  the 
coals. 

To-morrow  brings  back  this  weekly  spectre! 
To-morrow  Jasper  Losely,  punctual  to  the  stroke 
of  eleven,  returns  to  remind  him  of  that  past 
which,  if  revealed,  will  blast  the  future.  And  re- 
vealed it  might  be  any  hour,  despite  the  biibe  for 
silence  which  he  must  pay  with  his  own  hands, 
under  his  own  roof.  Would  he  trust  another  with 
the  secret  of  that  payment  ?  — horror !  Would 
he  visit  Losely  at  his  own  lodging,  and  pay  him 
there  ? — murder  !  Would  he  appoint  him  some- 
where in  the  streets  —  run  the  chance  of  being 
seen  with  such  a  friend  ?  Respectability  con- 
fabulating with  offal  I — disgrace  !  And  Jasper 
had  on  the  last  two  or  three  visits  been  pecul- 
iarly disagreeable.  He  had  talked  loud.  Poole 
feared  that  his  wife  might  have  her  ear  at  the 
keyhole.  Jasper  had  seen  the  parloi'-raaid  in 
the  passage  as  he  went  out  and  caught  her 
round  the  waist.  The  parlor-maid  had  com- 
plained to  INIrs.  Poole,  and  said  she  should  leave 
if  so  insulted  by  such  anuglv  blackguard.  Fan- 
cy I  what  the  poor  lady-killer  has  come  to  I  ^Irs. 
Poole  had  grown  more  and  more  inquisitive  and 
troublesome  on  the  subject  of  such  extraordinary 
visits ;  and  now,  as  her  husband  stirred  the  fire 
— having  roused  her  secret  ire  by  his  previous 
unmanly  snubbings,  and  Mrs.  Poole  being  one 
of  those  incomparable  wives  who  have  a  perfect 
command  of  temper,  who  never  reply  to  angry 
words  at  the  moment,  and  who  always,  with  ex- 
quisite calm  and  self-possession,  pay  off  every 
angry  word  by  an  amiable  sting  at  a  right  mo- 
ment— Mrs.  Poole,  I  say,  thus  softly  said : 

"  Sammy,  duck,  we  know  what  makes  oo  so 
cross;  but  it  sha'n't  vex  00  long,  Sammy.  That 
dreadful  man  comes  to-morrow.  He  always 
comes  the  same  day  of  tlie  week." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Mrs.  Poole." 

"Yes,  Sammy  dear,  I'll  hold  my  tongue. 
But  Sammy  sha'n't  be  imposed  upon  by  mendi- 
cants ;  for  I  know  he  is  a  mendicant — one  of 
those  sharpers  or  black-legs  who  took  oo  in, 
poor  innocent  Sam,  in  oo  wild  l)achelor  days, 
and  00  good  heart  can't  bear  to  see  him  in  dis- 
tress ;  but  there  must  be  an  end  to  all  things." 

"  Mrs.  Poole — Mrs.  Poole — will  you  stop  your 
fool's  jaw  or  not  ?" 

"  ^ly  poor  dear  hubby,"  said  the  angel, 
squeezing  out  a  mild  tear,  "  oo  will  be  in  good 
hands  to  advise  oo  ;  for  I've  been  and  told  Pal" 

"  You  have,"  faltered  Poole,  "  told  your  father 


— ^v^ou  have  I"  and  the  expression  of  his  face  be- 
came so  ghastly  that  Mrs.  Poole  grew  seriously 
terrified.  She  had  long  felt  that  there  was 
something  very  suspicious  in  her  husband's  sub- 
mission to  the  insolence  of  so  rude  a  visitor. 
But  she  knew  that  he  was  not  brave ;  the  man 
might  intimidate  him  by  threats  of  personal 
violence.  The  man  might  probably  be  some 
poor  relation,  or  some  one  whom  Poole  had 
ruined,  either  in  by-gone  discreditable  sporting 
days,  or  in  recent  respectable  mercantile  specu- 
lations. But  at  that  ghastly  look  a  glimpse  of 
the  real  truth  broke  upon  her ;  and  she  stood 
speechless  and  appalled.  At  this  moment  there 
was  a  loud  ring  at  the  street-door  bell.  Poole 
gathered  himself  up,  and  staggered  out  of  the 
room  into  the  passage. 

His  wife  remained  without  motion;  for  the 
first  time  she  conceived  a  fear  of  her  husband. 
Presently  she  heard  a  harsh  female  voice  in  the 
hall,  and  then  a  joyous  exclamation  from  Poole 
himself.  Recovered  by  these  unexpected  sounds, 
she  v>-ent  mechanically  forth  into  the  passage, 
just  in  time  to  see  the  hems  of  a  dark  iron-gray 
dress  disappearing  within  Poole's  study,  while 
Poole,  who  had  opened  the  study  door,  and  was 
bowing  in  the  iron-gray  dress  obsequiously, 
turned  his  eye  toward  his  wife,  and  striding  to- 
ward her  for  a  moment,  whispered — '•  Go  up 
stairs,  and  stir  not,"  in  a  tone  so  unlike  his 
usual  gi'uff  accents  of  command,  that  it  cowed 
her  out  of  the  profound  contempt  with  which 
she  habitually  received,  while  smilingly  obey- 
ing, his  marital  authority. 

Poole,  vanishing  into  his  study,  carefully 
closed  his  door,  and  would  have  caught  his  lady 
visitor  by  both  her  hands ;  but  she  waved  him 
back,  and,  declining  a  seat,  remained  sternly- 
erect. 

'•  ^Ir.  Poole,  I  have  but  a  few  words  to  say. 
The  letters  which  gave  Jasper  Losely  the  power 
to  extort  money  from  you  are  no  longer  in  his 
possession  ;  they  are  in  mine.  Yon  need  fear 
him  no  more — you  will  fee  him  no  more." 

"  Oh  I"  ci-ied  Poole,  falling  on  his  knees,  "the 
blessing  of  a  father  of  a  family — a  babe  not  six 
weeks  born — be  on  your  blessed,  blessed  head !" 

"  Get  up,  and  don't  talk  nonsense.  I  do  not 
give  you  these  papers  at  present,  nor  burn  them. 
Instead  of  being  in  the  power  of  a  muddled,  ir- 
resolute diimkard,  you  are  in  the  power  of  a 
vigilant,  clear-brained  woman.  You  are  in  my 
j)ower,  and  you  will  act  as  I  tell  you." 

"  You  can  ask  nothing  wrong,  I  am  sure," 
said  Poole,  his  grateful  enthusiasm  much  abated. 
"Command  me;  but  the  papers  can  be  of  no 
use  to  you ;  I  will  pay  for  them  handsomely." 

"  Be  silent  and  listen.  I  retain  these  papers 
— first,  because  Jas])er  Losely  must  not  know 
that  they  ever  passed  to  my  hands ;  secondly, 
because  you  must  inflict  no  injury  on  Losely 
himself  Betray  me  to  him,  or  try  to  render 
himself  up  to  the  law,  and  the  documents  will 
be  used  against  you  ruthlessly.  Obey,  and  you 
have  nothing  to  fear,  and  nothing  to  pay. 
When  Jasper  Losely  calls  on  you  to-morrow, 
ask  him  to  show  you  the  letters.  He  can  not ; 
he  will  make  excuses.  Decline  peremptorily, 
but  not  insultingly  (his  temper  is  fierce),  to  pay 
him  farther.  He' will  perliaps  charge  you  with 
having  hired  some  one  to  purloin  his  pocket- 
book;  let  him  think  it.     Stoi) — your  window 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


231 


here  opens  on  the  ground ;  a  garden  without : 
— Ah  I  have  three  of  the  poUce  in  that  garden, 
in  sight  of  the  window.  Point  to  them  if  he 
threaten  you ;  summon  them  to  your  aid,  or 
pass  out  to  them,  if  he  actually  attempt  violence. 
But  when  he  has  left  the  house,  you  must  urge 
no  charge  against  him ;  he  must  be  let  olf  un- 
scathed. You  can  be  at  no  loss  for  excuse  in 
this  mercy:  a  friend  of  former  times — needy, 
unfortunate,  whom  habits  of  drink  maddened 
for  the  moment — necessary  to  eject  him,  inhu- 
man to  prosecute— any  story  you  please.  The 
next  day  you  can,  if  you  choose,  leave  London 
for  a  short  time  ;  I  adrise  it.  But  his  teeth  will 
be  drawn ;  he  v.ill  most  probably  never  trouble 
you  again.  I  know  his  character.  There,  I 
have  done ;  open  the  door.  Sir." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
The  wreck  and  the  life-boat  ia  a  fog. 

The  next  day,  a  little  after  noon,  Jasper 
Losely,  coming  back  from  Alhambra  Yilla — 
furious,  desperate,  knowing  not  where  to  turn 
for  bread,  or  on  whom  to  pour  his  rage — beheld 
suddenly,  in  a  quiet,  half-built  street,  which  led 
from  the  suburb  to  the  New  Road,  Arabella 
Crane  standing  right  in  his  path.  She  had 
emerged  from  one  of  the  many  straight  inter- 
secting roads  which  characterize  that  crude 
nebula  of  a  future  city :  and  the  woman  and 
the  man  met  thus  face  to  face ;  not  another 
passer-by  visible  in  the  thoroughfare  ;  at  a  dis- 
tance the  dozing  hack  cab-stand;  round  and 
about  them  carcasses  of  brick  and  mortar — 
some  with  gaunt  scaffolding  fixed  into  their 
ribs,  and  all  looking  yet  more  weird  in  their 
raw  struggle  into  shape  tlirough  the  livid  haze 
of  a  yellow  fog. 

Losely,  seeing  Arabella  thus  planted  in  his 
way,  recoiled;  and  the  superstition  in  which 
he  had  long  associated  her  image  with  baiHed 
schemes  and  perilous  hours,  sent  the  ^vrathful 
blood  back  through  his  veins  so  quickly  that  he 
heard  his  heart  beat  I 

3Ies.  Cr-^xe.  "  So !  Tou  see  we  can  not 
help  meeting,  Jasper  dear,  do  what  you  wiU  to 
shun  me." 

LosELT.  "I — I — you  always  startle  me  sol 
— you  are  in  town,  then  ? — to  stay  ? — your  old 
quarters?" 

!Mrs.  Ceaxe.  "  Why  ask  ?  You  can  not  wish 
to  know  where  I  am — you  would  not  call.  But 
how  fares  it  ? — what  do  you  do  ? — how  do  you 
live  ?    You  look  ill — Poor  Jasper  I' 

Losely  (fiercely).  "Hang  your  pity,  and  give 
me  some  money." 

:Mes.  Ceaxe  (calmly  laying  her  lean  hand  on 
the  arm  which  was  darted  forward  more  in  men- 
ace than  entreaty,  and  actually  terrifying  the 
Gladiator  as  she  linked  that  deadly  arm  into  her 
own).  "I  said  you  would  always  find  me  when 
at  the  worst  of  your  troubles.  And  so,  Jasper, 
it  shall  be  till  this  right  hand  of  yours  is  power- 
less as  the  clay  at  our  feet.  Walk — walk ;  you 
are  not  afraid  of  me  ? — walk  on,  tell  me  all. 
TMiere  have  you  just  been?" 

Jasper,  therewitli  reminded  of  his  wrongs, 
poured  out  a  volley  of  abuse  on  Poole,  commu- 
nicating to  ilrs.  Crane  the  whole  story  of  his 


claims  on  that  gentleman — the  loss  of  the  pock- 
et-book filched  from  him,  and  Poole's  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  thus  disarmed. 

"And  the  coward,"  said  he,  grinding  his 
teeth,  "  got  out  of  his  window — and  three  po- 
licemen in  his  garden.  He  must  have  bribed  a 
pickpocket — low  knave  that  he  is.  But  I  shall 
find  out — and  then — " 

'•And  then,  Jasper,  how  will  you  be  better 
oft"? — the  letters  are  gone ;  and  Poole  has  yon 
in  his  power  if  you  threaten  him  again.  Kow, 
hark  you  ;  you  did  not  murder  the  Italian  who 
:  was  found  stabbed  in  the  fields  yonder  a  week 
ago?  £100  reward  for  the  murderer." 
I  "I — no.  How  coldly  you  ask!  I  have  hit 
hard  in  fair  fight — murdered,  never.  If  ever  I 
take  to  that,  I  shall  begin  with  Poole." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Jasper,  that  you  are  suspected 
of  that  murder ;  that  j^lk  ^iH  t)e  accused  of 
that  murder;  and  if  I  hSS  not  thus  fortunately 
met  you,  for  that  murder  you  would  be  tried 
and  hanged." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?     Who  could  accuse  me  ?" 

"  Those  who  know  that  you  are  not  guilty — 

!  those  who  coYild  make  you  appear  so — the  ril- 

!  lains  with  whom  you  horde,  and  drink,  and 

brawl!     Have  I  ever  been  wi-ong  in  my  wam- 

1  ings  yet  ?" 

"  This  is  too  hon-ible,"  faltered  Losely,  think- 

'  ing  not  of  the  conspiracy  against  his  life  but  of 

her  prescience  in  detecting  it.     '•  It  must  be 

I  witchcraft,  and  nothing  else.     How  cotild  you 

I  learn  what  you  tell  me  ?" 

"That  is  my  affair;  enough  for  you  that  I 

1  am  right.     Go  no  more  to  those  black  haunts ; 

they  are  even  now  full  of  snares  and  pitfalls  for 

you.     Leave  London,  and  you  are  safe.    Trust 

to  me." 

"  And  where  shall  I  go?" 
"  Look  you,  Jasper ;  you  have  worn  out  this 
Old  World — no  refuge  for  you  but  the  New. 
Whither  went  your  father,  thither  go  you. 
Consent,  and  you  shall  not  want.  You  can  not 
discover  Sophy.  You  have  failed  in  all  attempts 
on  Darrell's  purse.  But  agree  to  sail  to  Aus- 
tralasia, and  I  will  engage  to  you  an  income 
larger  than  you  sa\-  you  extorted  from  Poole, 
to  be  spent  in  those  safer  shores." 

"  And  you  will  go  with  me,  I  suppose,"  said 
Losely,  with  ungracious  snllenness. 

"  Go  with  you,  as  you  please.    Be  where  you 
are — yes." 
The  rufiian  bounded  with  rage  and  loathing. 
"Woman,  cross  me  no  more,  or  I  shall  be 
goaded  into — " 

"  Into  killing  me — you  dare  not !     Meet  my 
eye  if  you  can — you  dare  not !     Harm  me,  yea 
a  hair  of  my  head,  and  yoiu'  moments  are  num- 
bered— ^your  doom  sealed  I     Be  we  two  togeth- 
er in  a  desert — not  a  human  eye  to  see  the  deed 
;  — not  a  human  ear  to  receive  my  groan,  and 
still  I  should  stand  by  your  side  unharmed.     I, 
■  who  have  returned  the  wrongs  received  from 
you  by  vigilant,  untiring  benefits — I,  who  have 
saved  you  from  so  many  enemies  and  so  many 
dangers — I,  who,  now  when  all  the  rest  of  earth 
shun  you,  when  all  other  resource  fails — I,  who 
I  now  say  to  you,  '  Share  my  income,  but  be  hon- 
lestl' — /receive  injury  from  that  hand!     No; 
the  guilt  would  be  too  unnatural — Heaven  would 
not  permit  it.     Try,  and  your  arm  will  fall  pal- 
sied bv  vour  side  I" 


"WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Jasper's  bloodshot  eves  dropped  beneath  the 
woman's  fixed  and  scorching  gaze,  and  his  lips, 
white  and  tremulous,  refused  to  breathe  the 
fierce  curse  into  which  his  brutal  nature  con- 
centrated its  fears  and  its  hate.  He  walked 
on  in  gloomy  silence ;  but  some  words  she  had 
let  fall  suggested  a  last  resort  to  his  own  dar- 
ing. 

She  had  ui-ged  him  to  quit  the  Old  World  for 
the  Xew,  but  that  had  been  the  very  proposition 
conveyed  to  him  from  Darrell.  If  that  proposi- 
tion, so  repugnant  to  the  indolence  that  had 
grown  over  him,  must  be  embraced,  better,  at 
least,  sail  forth  alone,  his  own  master,  than  be 
the  dependent  slave  of  this  abhorred  and  ]jerse- 
cuting  benefactress.  His  despair  gave  him  the 
determination  he  had  hitlierto  lacked.  He 
would  seek  Darrell  himself,  and  make  the  best 
compromise  he  couldj^.This  resolve  passed  into 
his  mind  as  he  stalked  on  through  the  yellow 
fog,  and  his  nei'ves  recovered  from  their  irrita- 
tion, and  his  thoughts  regained  something  of 
their  ancient  craft,  as  the  idea  of  escaping  from 
Mi's.  Crane's  vigilance  and  charity  assumed  a 
definite  shape. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  dissimulating  his 
repugnance,  and  with  an  eflfort  at  his  old  half- 
coaxing,  half-rollicking  tones,  "you  certainly 
are  the  best  of  creatures ;  and,  as  you  say, 

'Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  you,' 

ungi-ateful  dog  though  I  must  seem,  and  very 
likely  am.  I  own  I  have  a  horror  of  Australia 
— such  a  long  sea-voyage !  New  scdnes  no  lon- 
ger attract  me ;  I  am  no  longer  young,  though 
I  ought  to  be ;  but,  if  you  insist  on  it,  and  will 
really  condescend  to  accompany  me,  in  spite  of 
all  my  sins  to  you,  why,  I  can  make  up  my  mind. 
And  as  to  honesty,  ask  those  infernal  rascals 
who,  you  say,  would  swear  away  my  life,  and 
they  will  tell  you  that  I  have  been  as  innocent 
as  a  lamb  since  my  return  to  England ;  and 
that  is  my  guilt  in  their  villainous  eyes.  As 
long  as  that  infamous  Poole  gave  me  enough 
for  my  humble  wants  I  was  a  reformed  man.  I 
wish  to  keep  reformed.  Very  little  suffices  for 
me  now.  As  you  say,  Australia  may  be  the 
best  place  for  me.    When  shall  we  sail?" 

"  Are  you  serious?" 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  Then  I  will  inquire  the  days  on  which  the 
vessels  start.  You  can  call  on  me  at  my  own 
old  home,  and  all  shall  be  arranged.  Oh,  Jas- 
per Losely,  do  not  avoid  this  last  chance  of  es- 
cape from  the  perils  that  gather  round  you." 


I  "  No  ;  I  am  sick  of  life — of  all  things  except 
repose.  Arabella,  I  suffer  horrible  pain." 
I  He  groaned,  for  he  spoke  truly.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  gnaw  of  the  monster  anguish,  which 
fastens  on  the  nerves  like  a  wolfs  tooth,  was  so 
keen  that  he  longed  to  swell  his  groan  into  a 
roar.  The  old  fable  of  Hercules  in  the  poison- 
ed tunic  was  surely  invented  by  some  skilled 
physiologist  to  denote  the  truth  that  it  is  only  in' 
the  strongest  frames  that  pain  can  be  pushed 
into  its  extremest  torture.  The  heart  of  the 
grim  woman  was  instantly  and  thoroughly  soft- 
ened. She  paused  ;  she  made  him  lean  on  her 
arm;  she  wiped  the  drops  from  his  brow;  she 
addressed  him  in  the  most  soothing  tones  of 
pity.  The  spasm  passed  av.-ay  _suddenly,  as  it 
does  in  neuralgic  agonies,  and  with  it  any  grat- 
itude or  any  remorse  in  the  breast  of  the  suf- 
ferer. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will  call  on  you;  but 
meanwhile  I  am  without  a  farthing."  Oh,  do 
not  fear  that  if  you  helped  me  now  I  should 
again  shun  you.  I  have  no  other  resource  left ; 
nor  have  I  now  the  spirit  I  once  had.  I  no  lon- 
ger now  laugh  at  fatigue  and  danger." 

"  But  will  you  swear  by  all  that  you  yet  hold 
sacred — if,  alas !  there  be  aught  which  is  sacred 
to  you — that  you  will  not  again  seek  the  com- 
pany of  those  men  who  are  conspiring  to  entrap 
you  into  the  hangman's  hands?" 

"  Seek  them  again,  the  uhgrateful,  cowardly 
blackguards !  No,  no ;  I  promise  you  that — sol- 
emnly ;  it  is  medical  aid  that  I  want ;  it  is  rest, 
I  tell  you — rest,  rest,  rest." 

Arabella  Crane  drew  forth  her  purse.  "Take 
what  you  will,"  said  she,  gently.  Jasper,  wheth- 
er from  the  desire  to  deceive  her,  or  because  her 
alms  were  really  so  distasteful  to  his  strange 
kind  of  pride  that  he  stinted  to  bare  necessity 
the  appeal  to  them,  contented  himself  with  a 
third  or  a  fourth  of  the  sovereigns  that  the  purse 
contained ;  and  after  a  few  words  of  thanks  and 
promises  he  left  her  side,  and  soon  vanished  in 
the  fog  that  grew  darker  and  darker  as  the 
night-like  wintery  day  deepened  over  the  silenced 
thoroughfares. 

The  woman  went  her  way  through  the  mists, 
hopeful — through  the  mists  went  the  man,  hope- 
ful also.  Recruiting  himself  by  slight  food  and 
strong  drink  at  a  tavern  on  his  road,  he  stalked 
on  to  Darrell's  house  in  Carlton  Gardens  ;  and, 
learning  there  that  Darrell  was  at  Fawley,  hast- 
ened to  the  station  from  which  started  the  train 
to  the  town  nearest  to  the  old  Manor  House ; 
reached  that  town  safely,  and  there  rested  for 
the  night. 


ATHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


203 


BOOK      IX. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  secret  Trliich  Guy  Darrell  did  not  confide  to  Altian 
iloi'lev. 

It  was  a  serene  noonday  in  that  melancholy 
interlude  of  the  seasons  when  autumn  has  real- 
ly ceased — winter  not  yet  visibly  begun.  The 
same  hired  vehicle  which  had  bfcnie  Lionel  to 
Fawley,  more  tlian  five  years  ago,  stopped  at 
the  pate  of  the  wild,  umbrageous  sirass-land 
that  surrounded  the  antique  !Manor  House.  It 
had  been  engaged,  from  the  nearest  railway 
station  on  the  London  Road,  by  a  lady,  with 
a  female  companion  who  seemed  her  servant. 
The  di-iver  dismounted,  opened  the  door  of  the 
vehicle,  and  the  lady,  bidding  him  wait  there 
till  her  return,  and  saying  a  few  words  to  her 
comj^anion,  descended,  and  drawing  her  cloak 
around  her,  walked  on  alone  toward  the  Manor 
House.  At  first  her  step  was  firm,  and  her  pace 
quick.  She  was  still  under  the  excitement  of 
the  resolve  in  v.-hich  the  journey  from  her  home 
had  been  suddenly  conceived  and  promptly  ac- 
complished. But  as  the  path  wound  on  through 
the  stillness  of  venerable  groves,  her  courage 
began  to  fail  her.  Her  feet  loitered,  her  eyes 
wandered  round  vaguely,  timidly.  The  scene 
was  not  new  to  her.  As  she  gazed,  rushingly 
gathered  over  her  sorrowful,  shrinking  mind 
memories  of  sportive,  happy  summer  days,  spent 
in  childhood  amidst  those  turt's  and  shades — 
memories,  more  agitating,  of  the  last  visit  (child- 
hood then  ripened  into  blooming  youth)  to  the 
ancient  dwelling  which,  yet  concealed  from  view 
by  the  swells  of  the  undulating  ground  and  the 
yellow  boughs  of  the  giant  trees,  betrayed  its 
site  by  the  smoke  rising  thin  and  dim  against 
the  limpid  atmosjihere.  She  bent  down  her 
head,  closing  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  less  the 
face  of  the  landscape  than  the  images  that  rose, 
ghost-like,  up  to  people  it,  and  sighed  heavily, 
heavily.  Xow — hard  by,  roused  from  its  bed 
among  the  fern,  the  doe  that  Darrell  had  tamed 
into  companionship  had  watched  with  curiosity 
this  strange  intruder  on  its  solitary  range.  But 
at  the  sound  of  that  heavy  sigh,  "the  creature, 
emboldened,  left  its  halting-place,  and  stole 
close  to  the  saddened  woman,  touching  her  very 
dress.  Doubtless,  as  Darrell's  companion  in  his 
most  musing  hours,  the  doe  was  famiHarized  to 
the  sound  of  sighs,  and  associated  the  sound 
with  its  gentlest  notions  of  humanitv. 

The  lady,  starting,  raised  her  drooping  lids, 
and  met  those  soft  dark  eyes,  dark  and  soft  as 
her  own.  Round  the  animal's  neck  there  was 
a  simple  collar,  with  a  silver  plate,  fresh  and 
new,  evidently  placed  there  recently ;  and  as 
the  creature  thrust  forward  its  head,  as  if  for 
the  caress  of  a  wonted  hand,  the  lady  read  the 
inscription.  The  words  were  in  Italian,  and 
may  be  construed  thus :  '•  Female,  yet  not  faith- 
less ;  fostered,  yet  not  ungrateful."  As  she  read, 
her  heart  so  swelled,  and  her  resolve  so  desert- 
ed her,  that  she  turned  as  if  she  had  received  a 


sentence  of  dismissal,  and  went  back  some  liastj 
paces.  The  doe  followed  her  till  she  ];aused 
again,  and  then  it  went  slowly  down  a  narrow 
path  to  the  left,  which  led  to 'the  banks  of  the 
little  lake. 

The  lady  had  now  recovered  herself.  "  It  is 
a  duty,  and  it  must  be  done,"  she  muttered ; 
and  letting  down  the  vail  she  had  raised  on  en- 
tering the  demesne,  she  humed  on,  not  retrac- 
ing her  steps  in  the  same  pfih,  but  taking  that 
into  which  the  doe  had  stricken — perhaps  in  the 
confused  mistake  of  a  mind  absorbed  and  absent 
— perhaps  in  revived  recollection  of  vhe  locali- 
ties ;  for  the  way  thus  to  the  house  was  shorter 
than  by  the  weed-grown  carriage-road.  The 
lake  came  in  view,  serene  and  glassy ;  half  leaf- 
less woodlands  reflected  far  upon  its  quiet  wa- 
ters ;  the  doe  halted,  lifted  its  head  and  sniffed 
the  air,  and,  somewhat  quickening  its  pace,  van- 
ished behind  one  of  the  hillocks  clothed  with 
brushwood,  that  gave  so  primitive  and  forest- 
like a  character  to  the  old  ground.  Advancing 
still,  there  now,  at  her  right  hand,  grew  out  of 
the  landscajje  the  noble  turrets  of  the  unfinished 
pile  ;  and,  close  at  her  left,  under  a  gnarled  fan- 
tastic thorn-tree,  the  still  lake  at  his  feet  reflect- 
ing his  stiller  shadow,  reclined  Guy  Darrell,  the 
doe  nestled  at  his  side. 

So  unexpected  this  sight — he,  whom  she  came 
to  seek  yet  feared  to  see,  so  close  upon  her  way 
— the  lady  uttered  a  fiiint  btit  sharp  cry,  and 
Darrell  sprang  to  his  feet.  She  stood  "before 
him,  vailed,  mantled,  bending  as  a  suppliant. 

'•AvauntI"  he  faltered,  wildly.  "Is  this  a 
spirit  my  own  black  solitude  conjures  up — or  is 
it  a  delusion,  a  dream  ?" 

"It  is  I — I ! — the  Caroline  dear  to  you  once, 
if  detested  now!  Forgive  me!  Xot  for  myself 
I  come."  She  flung  back  her  vail — her  eyes 
pleadingly  sought  his. 

"  So,"  said  DaiTell,  gathering  his  arms  round 
his  breast  in  the  gesture  peculiar  to  him  when 
seeking  either  to  calm  a  more  turbulent  move- 
ment, or  to  confirm  a  sterner  resolution  of  his 
heart — "  so  !  Caroline,  Marchioness  of  ilont- 
fort,  we  are  then  fated  to  meet  face  to  face  at 
last !  I  understand — Lionel  Haughton  sent,  or 
showed  to  you,  my  letter  ?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Darrein  how  could  you  have  the 
heart  to  write  in  such  terms  of  one  who — "' 

"  One  who  had  taken  the  heart  from  my  bo- 
som and  trampled  it  into  the  mire.  True,  frib- 
bles will  saj-,  'Fie  !  the  vocabulary  of  fine  gen- 
tlemen has  no  harsh  terms  for  women.'  Gal- 
lants, to  whom  love  is  pastime,  leave  or  are  left 
with  elegant  sorrow  and  courtly  bows.  ]Madam, 
I  was  never  such  airy  gallant.  I  am  but  a  man, 
unhappily  in  earnest — a  man  who  placed  in  those 
hands  his  life  of  life — who  said  to  you,  while  yet 
in  his  prime,  '  There  is  my  future — take  it,  till 
it  vanish  out  of  earth  I'  You  have  made  that 
life  substanceless  as  a  ghost — that  future  barren 
as  the  grave.  And  when  you  dare  force  your- 
self again  upon  my  way,  and  would  dictate  laws 


234 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


to  my  very  hearth — when  I  speak  as  a  man 
what  plain  men  must  feel — 'Oh,  Mr.  Darrell!' 
says  your  injured  ladyship,  'how  can  you  have 
the  heart  ?'  Woman  !  were  you  not  false  as  the 
falsest?  Falsehood  has  no  dignity  to  awe  re- 
buke— falsehood  no  privilege  of  sex." 

"  Darrell  —  Darrell  —  Darrell  —  spare  me, 
spare  me  !  I  have  been  so  jiuuished"- — I  am  so 
miserable !" 

"  You  I — punished  ! — What !  j^ou  sold  your- 
self to  youth,  and  sleek  looks,  and  grand  titles, 
and  the  flattery  of  a  world ;  and  your  rose-leaves 
were  crumpled  in  the  gorgeous  marriage-bed. 
Adequate  punishment  I — a  crumpled  rose-leaf! 
True,  the  man  was  a —  But  why  should  I  speak 
ill  of  him  ?  It  was  he  who  was  punished,  if,  ac- 
cepting his  rank,  yon  recognized  in  himself  a 
nothingness  that  you  could  neither  love  nor 
honor.  False  and  ungrateful  alike  to  the  man 
you  chose — to  the  man  you  forsook !  And  now 
you  have, buried  one,  and  you  have  schemed  to 
degrade  the  other." 

"Degrade I — Oh,  it  is  that  charge  which  has 
stung  me  to  the  quick !  All  the  others  I  de- 
serve. But  that  charge !  Listen — you  shall 
listen  I" 

"  I  stand  here  resigned  to  do  so.  Say  all  you 
will  now,  for  it  is  the  last  time  on  earth  I  lend 
my  ears  to  your  voice." 

'•Be  it  so — the  last  time."  She  paused  to 
recover  speech,  collect  thoughts,  gain  strength ; 
and  strange  though  it  may  seem  to  those  who 
have  never  loved,  amidst  all  her  grief  and  hu- 
miliation, there  was  a  fearful  delight  in  that 
presence  from  which  she  had  been  exiled  since 
her  youth — nay,  delight  unaccountable  to  her- 
self, even  in  that  rough,  vehement,  bitter  tem- 
pest of  reproach;  for  an  instinct  told  her  that 
there  would  have  been  no  hatred  in  the  lan- 
guage had  no  love  been  lingering  in  the  soul. 

"  Speak,"  said  Darrell,  gently  softened,  de- 
spite himself,  by  her  evident  struggle  to  control 
emotion. 

Twice  she  began — twice  voice  failed  her.  At 
last  her  words  came  forth  audibly.  She  began 
with  her  plea  for  Lionel  and  Sophy,  and  gath- 
ered boldness  by  her  zeal  on  their  behalf.  She 
proceeded  to  vindicate  her  own  motives — to  ac- 
quit herself  of  his  harsh  charge.  She  scheme 
for  Ills  degradation!  She  had  been  too  carried 
away  by  her  desire  to  promote  his  happiness — 
to  guard  him  from  the  i>ossibility  of  a  self-re- 
proach. At  first  he  listened  to  her  with  a 
haughty  calmness,  merely  saying,  in  reference 
to  Sophy  and  Lionel,  "  I  have  nothing  to  add 
or  to  alter  in  the  resolution  I  have  communi- 
cated to  Lionel."  But  when  siie  thus  insensi- 
bly mingled  their  cause  with  her  own,  his  im- 
patience broke  out.  "  'Sly  happiness  !  Oli,  well 
have  you  proved  the  sincerity  with  which  you 
schemed  for  that !  Save  me  from  self-reproach ! 
— me  I  Has  Lady  Montfort  so  wliolly  forgotten 
that  slie  was  once  Caroline  Lyndsay  that  she 
can  assume  the  part  of  a  warning  angel  against 
the  terrors  of  self-reproach  ?" 

"Ah!"  she  murmured,  faintly,  "can  you 
suppose,  however  fickle  and  thankless  I  may 
seem  to  you — " 

"  Seem !"  he  repeated. 

"  Seem !"  she  said  again,  but  meekly — "  seem, 
and  seem  justly  ;  yet  can  you  suj)pose  that  when 
I  became  free  to  utter  my  remorse — to  sj>eak  of 


gratitude,  of  reverence — I  was  insincere  ?  Dar- 
rell, Darrell,  you  can  not  think  so!  That  let- 
ter which  reached  you  abroad  nearly  a  year  ago, 
in  which  I  laid  my  pride  of  woman  at  your  feet, 
as  I  lay  it  now  in  coming  here — that  letter,  in 
which  I  asked  if  it  were  impossible  for  you  to 
pardon,  too  late  for  me  to  atone — was  Mritten 
on  my  knees.  It  was  the  outburst  of  my  veiy 
heart.  Js  ay,  nay,  hear  me  out.  Do  not  imagine 
that  I  would  again  obtrude  a  hope  so  contempt- 
uously crushed !"  (A  deep  blush  came  over  her 
cheek.)  "I  blame  j'ou  not,  nor,  let  me  say  it, 
did  your  severity  bring  that  shame  which  I 
might  have  justly  felt  had  I  so  written  to  any 
man  on  earth  but  you — you,  so  reverenced  from 
my  infancy,  that — " 

"Ay,"  interrupted  Darrell,  fiercely,  "aj-,  do 
not  fear  that  I  should  misconceive  you ;  you 
would  not  so  have  addressed  the  young,  the  fair, 
the  hapjiy.  Xo !  you,  proud  beauty,  witli  hosts, 
no  doubt,  of  supplicating  wooers,  would  have 
thrust  that  hand  into  the  flames  before  it  wrote 
to  a  young  man,  loved  as  the  young  are  loved, 
what  without  shame  it  wrote  to  the  old  man,  rev- 
erenced as  the  old  are  reverenced!  But  my 
heart  is  not  old,  and  your  boasted  reverence  was 
a  mocking  insult.  Your  letter,  torn  to  pieces, 
was  returned  to  you  without  a  word — insult  for 
insult!  You  felt  no  shame  that  I  should  so 
rudely  reject  3'our  pity.  Why  should  you  ?  Re- 
jected pity  is  not  rejected  love.  The  man  was 
not  less  old  because  he  was  not  reconciled  to 
age." 

This  construction  of  her  tender  penitence — 
this  explanation  of  his  bitter  scorn — took  Caro- 
line Montfort  wholly  by  surprise.     From  wliat 
writhing  agonies  of  lacerated  self-love  came  that 
pride  which  was  but  self-depreciation  ?     It  was 
a  glimpse  into  the  deeper  rents  of  his  charred 
and  desolated  being,  which  increased  at  once 
her  yearning  affection  and  her  passionate  de- 
spair.   Vainly  she  tried  to  utter  the  feelings  tliat 
;  crowded   upon  her! — vainly,  vainly!     Woman 
'can  murmur,   "I  have  injured  you — forgive!" 
j  when  she  can  not  exclaim,  "You  disdain  me, 
I  but  I  love !"     Vainly,  vainly  her  bosom  heaved 
j  and  her  lips  moved  under  the  awe  of  his  fiash- 
j  ing  eyes  and  the  grandeur  of  his   indignant 
fro^^^l. 

"Ah !"  he  resumed,  pursuing  his  own  thoughts 
j  with  a  sombre  intensity  of  passion  that  rendered 

I  him  almost  unconscious  of  her  presence — "  Ah ! 

I I  said  to  myself,  'Oh,  she  believes  that  she  has 
!  been  so  mourned  and  missed  that  my  soul  would 

spring  back  to  her  false  smile  ;  that  I  could  be 
so  base  a  slave  to  my  senses  as  to  pardon  the 
traitress  because  her  face  was  fair  enough  to 
haunt  my  dreams.  She  dupes  herself;  she  is  no 
necessity  to  my  existence — I  have  wrenched  it 
from  her  power  years,  long  years  ago !  I  will 
show  lier,  since  again  she  deigns  to  remember 
me,  that  I  am  not  so  old  as  to  be  grateful  for 
the  leavings  of  a  heart.  I  will  Jove  another — I 
will  be  beloved.  She  shall  not  say  with  secret 
triumph,  '  The  old  man  dotes  in  rejecting  me.' " 

"Darrell,  Darrell — unjust  —  cruel;  kill  me 
rather  tlian  talk  tlius  !" 

He  heeded  not  her  cry.  His  words  rolled  on 
in  that  wonderful,  varying  music  which,  whether 
in  tenderness  or  in  wrath,  gave  to  his  voice  a 
magical  power — fascinating,  hushing,  overmas- 
terins;  human  souls. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


"  But — vou  have  the  triumph  ;  see,  I  am  still 
alone  I  I  sought  the  world  of  the  young — the 
marriage  mart    of  the   Beautiful    once    more. 
Alas  I  if  my  eye  was  cajjtured  for  a  moment,  it 
was  by  something  that  reminded  me  of  you.     I 
saw  a   faultless    face,    radiant  with    its  virgin 
blush  ;  moved  to  it.  I  drew  near — sighing,  turned 
awav :    it  was   not  you !     I  heard  the  silvery  '[ 
laugh  of  a  life  fresh  as  an  April  morn.     '  Hark !'  ; 
I  said,   '  is  not  that  the  sweet  mirth-note  at 
which  all  my  cares  were  dispelled  ?'     Listening, 
I  forgot  my  weight  of  years.     Why !  because 
listening,  I  remembered  you.     '  Heed  not  the  j 
treacherous   blush   and  the  beguiling   laugh,' 
whispered  Prudence.     '  Seek  in  congenial  mind  : 
a  calm  companion  to  thine  own.'     31ind  I — oh 
frigid  pedantry  I     ilind  I — had  not  yours  been  a  ■ 
volume  open  to  my  eyes,  in  every  page,  me-  ; 
thought,  some  lovely  poet-truth  never  revealed  [ 
to  human  sense  before !     Ko ;  you  had  killed  to  j 
me  all  womanhood !     Woo  another  I — wed  an- 1 
other!  'Hush,'  I  said,  'it  shall  he.     Eighteen  I 
years  since  we  parted — seeing  her  not,  she  re-  i 
mains  eternally  the  same !     Seeing  her  again, 
the  very  change  that  time  must  have  brought 
will  cure.'     I  saw  you — all  the  Past  rushed  back  j 
in  that  stolen  moment.     I  fled — never  more  to  ^ 
dream  that  I  can  shake  oft"  the  curse  of  memory- 
— blent  with  each  drop  of  my  blood — woven  i 
with  each  tissue — throbbing  in  each  nerve — bone  ■ 
of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my  flesh — poison-root ' 
from  which  every  thought  buds  to  wither — the 
curse  to  have  loved  and  to  have  trusted  you  I" 

"  Merciful  Heaven  I  can  I  bear  this  ?"  cried 
Caroline,  clasping  her  hands  to  her  bosom. 
"  And  is  my  sin  so  great — is  it  so  unpardonable ! 
Oh,  if  in  a  heart  so  noble,  in  a  nature  so  great, 
mine  was  the  unspeakable  honor  to  inspire  an 
aflection  thus  enduring,  must  it  be  only — only 
as  a  curse  I  Why  can  I  not  repair  the  past  ? 
You  have  not  ceased  to  love  me.  Call  it  hate 
— it  is  love  still  I  And  now,  no  barrier  between 
our  lives,  can  I  never,  never  again — never,  now 
that  I  know  I  am  less  unworthy  of  you  by  the 
very  anguish  I  feel  to  have  so  stung  you — can  I 
never  again  be  the  Caroline  of  old !" 

"Ha,  hal"'  burst  forth  the  unrelenting  man, 
with  a  bitter  laugh  I — "see  the  real  coarseness 
of  a  woman's  nature  under  all  its  fine-spun  frip- 
pery !  Behold  these  delicate  creatures,  that  we 
scarcely  dare  to  woo !  how  little  they  even  com- 
prehend the  idolatry  they  inspire !  The  Caro- 
line of  old  I  Lo,  the  virgin  whose  hand  we 
touched  with  knightly  homage,  v.-hose  first  bash- 
ful kiss  was  hallowed  as  the  gale  of  paradise, 
deserts  us — sells  herself  at  the  altar — sanctifies 
there  her  very  infidelity  to  us  ;  and  when  years 
have  passed,  and  a  death  has  restored  her  free- 
dom, she  comes  to  us  as  if  she  had  never  pillowed 
her  head  on  another's  bosom,  and  says,  '  Can  I 
not  again  be  the  Caroline  of  old !'  We  men  are 
too  rude  to  forgive  the  faithless.  Where  is  the 
Caroline  I  loved?  You — are — my  Lady  ^lont- 
fort  I  Look  round.  On  these  turfs  you,  then 
a  child,  played  beside  my  children.  They  are 
dead,  but  less  dead  to  me  than  you.  Never 
dreamed  I  then  that  a  creature  so  fair  would  be 
other  than  a  child  to  my  grave  and  matured 
existence.  Then,  if  I  glanced  toward  your  fu- 
ture, I  felt  no  pang  to  picture  you  grown  to  wo- 
manhood— another's  bride.  My  hearth  had  for 
years  been  widowed.    I  had  no  thought  of  second 


nuptials.  My  son  would  gipw  up  to  enjoy  my 
wealth,  and  realize  my  cherished  dreams — he 
was  snatched  from  me  I  Who  alone  had  the 
power  to  comfort  ? — who  alone  had  the  courage 
to  steal  into  the  darkened  room  where  I  sate 
mourning?  sure  that  in  her  voice  there  would 
be  consolation,  and  the  sight  of  her  sympathizing 
tears  would  chide  away  the  bitterness  of  mine  ? 
— who  but  the  Caroline  of  old!  Ah,  you  are 
weeping  now.  But  Lady  Montfort's  tears  have 
no  talisman  to  me !  You  v.ere  then  still  a  child 
— as  a  child,  my  soothing  angel — A  year  or  so 
more,  my  daughter,  to  whom  all  my  pride  of 
House — all  my  hope  of  race,  had  been  consigned 
— she  whose  happiness  I  valued  so  much  more 
than  my  ambition,  that  I  had  refused  her  hand 
to  your  young  Lord  of  Montfort — puppet  that, 
stripped  of  the  millinery  of  titles,  was  not  wor- 
thy to  replace  a  doll! — my  daughter,  I  folded 
her  one  night  in  my  arms — I  implored  her  to 
confide  in  me  if  ever  she  nursed  a  hope  that  I 
could  further — knew  a  grief  that  I  could  banish  ; 
and  she  promised — and  she  bent  her  forehead 
to  my  blessing — and  before  daybreak  she  had 
fled  with  a  man  whose  very  touch  was  dishonor 

and  pollution,  and  was  lost  to  me  forever 

Then,  v.hen  I  came  hither  to  vent  at  my  father's 
gi'ave  the  indignant  grief  I  suSered  not  the  world 
to  see,  you  and  your  mother  (she  who  professed 
for  me  such  loyal  friendship,  such  ineflaceable 
gratitude),  you  two  came  kindly  to  share  my 
solitude — and  then,  then  you  were  a  child  no 
more  I — and  a  sun  that  had  never  gilt  my  life, 
brightened  out  of  the  face  of  the  Caroline  of 
old  I"  He  paused  a  moment,  heeding  not  her 
bitter  weeping;  he  was  rapt  from  the  present 
hour  itself  by  the  excess  of  that  anguish  which 
is  to  woe  what  ecstasy  is  to  joy — swept  along  by 
the  flood  of  thoughts  that  had  been  pent  within 
his  breast  through  the  solitar}-  days  and  haunted 
nights,  which  had  made  the  long  transition-state 
from  his  manhood's  noon  to  its  gathering  eve. 
And  in  that  pause  the^e  came  from  afar  off 
a  melodious,  melancholy  strain — softly,  softly 
borne  over  the  cold  blue  waters — softly,  softly 
through  the  sere  autumnal  leaves — the  music 
of  the  magic  flute ! 

"Hark!"  he  said,  "do  yon  not  remember? 
Look  to  that  beech -tree  yonder!  Summer 
clothed  it  then !  Do  you  not  remember !  as 
under  that  tree  we  stood — that  same,  same  note 
came,  musical  as  now,  undulating  with  rise  and 
fall — came,  as  if  to  inteqjret,  by  a  voice  from 
fairy-land,  the  beatings  of  m}'  own  mysterious 
heart.  You  had  been  pleading  for  pardon  to 
one  less  ungrateful — less  perfidious — than  my 
comforter  proved  herself.  I  had  listened  to  you, 
vrondering  why  anger  and  wrong  seemed  ban- 
ished from  the  world ;  and  I  murmured,  in 
answer,  without  conscious  thought  of  myself, 
'  '  Happy  the  man  whose  faults  your  bright  char- 
ity will  admonish — whose  griefs  your  tenderness 
will  chase  away !  But  when,  years  hence,  chil- 
dren are  born  to  yourself,  spare  me  the  one  who 
shall  most  resemble  you,  to  replace  the  daugh- 
ter whom  I  can  only  sincerely  pardon  when 
something  else  can  spring  up  to  my  desolate 
being — something  that  I  can  cherish  without  the 
meraoiy  of  falsehood  and  the  dread  of  shame.' 
Yes,  as  I  ceased,  came  that  music ;  and  as  it 
thrilled  through  the  summer  air,  I  turned  and 
,  met  your  eyes — turned  and  saw  your  blush — 


236 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


turned  and  heard  some  faint  faltering  words 
drowning  the  music  witli  diviner  sweetness ;  and 
suddenly  I  knew  as  by  a  revelation,  that  the 
Cliild  I  had  fostered  had  grown  the  Woman 
whom  I  loved. — My  own  soul  was  laid  bare  to 
me  by  the  flash  of  hope.  Over  the  universe 
rushed  light  and  color!  Oil,  the  Caroline  of 
old !  What  wonder  that  she  became  so  fatally, 
so  unspeakably  beloved !  As  some  man  in  an- 
cient story,  banished  from  his  native  land,  is 
told  by  an  oracle  to  seek  a  happier  isle  in  un- 
discovered seas — freights  with  his  all  a  single 
bark — collects  on  his  wandering  altar  the  last 
embers  of  his  abandoned  hearth — places  beside 
it  his  exiled  household  gods  ;  so  all  that  my  life 
had  left  to  me,  hallowing  and  hallowed,  I  stored 

in  you I  tore  myself  from  the  old  native 

soil,  the  old  hardy  skies.  Through  Time's  wide 
ocean  I  saw  but  the  promised  golden  isle.  Fa- 
bles, fables ! — lying  oracle  ! — sunken  vessel ! — 
visionary  isle !  And  life  to  me  had  till  then 
been  so  utterly  without  love ! — had  passed  in 
such  arid  labors — without  a  holiday  of  romance 
—all  the  fountains  of  the  unknown  passion  seal- 
ed till  the  spell  struck  tlie  rock,  and  every  wave, 
every  drop  sparkled  fresh  to  a  single  star.  Yet 
my  boyhood,  like  other  men's,  had  dreamed  of 
its  Ideal.  There  at  last  that  Ideal,  come  to 
life,  bloomed  before  me ;  there,  under  those 
beech-trees,  the  Caroline  of  old.  Oil  wretched 
woman,  now  weeping  at  my  side,  well  may  you 
weep !  Never  can  earth  give  you  back  such  love 
as  you  lost  in  mine." 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it — fool  that  I  was — mis- 
erable fool !" 

"Ay,  but  comfort  yourself— wilder  and  sad- 
der folly  in  myself!  Your  mother  was  right. 
'  The  vain  child,'  she  said,  'knows  not  her  own 
heart.  Siie  is  new  to  the  world — has  seen  none 
of  her  own  years.  For  your  sake,  as  for  hers,  I 
must  insist  on  the  experiment  of  absence.  A 
year's  ordeal — see  if  she  is  then  of  the  same 
mind.'  I  marveled  at  .her  coldness;  proudly  I 
submitted  to  her  reasonings;  fearlessly  I  con- 
fided the  result  to  you.  Ah!  how  radiant  was 
your  smile,  when,  in  the  parting  hour,  I  said, 
'  Summer  and  you  will  return  again !'  In  vain, 
on  pretense  that  the  experiment  should  be  com- 
plete, did  your  mother  carry  you  abroad,  and 
exact  from  us  both  the  solemn  jiromise  that  not 
even  a  letter  should  pass  between  iis — that  our 
troth,  made  thus  conditional,  should  be  a  secret 
to  all — in  vain,  if  meant  to  torture  me  with 
doubt.  In  my  creed,  a  doubt  is  itself  a  treason. 
How  lovely  grew  the  stern  face  of  Ambition ! — 
how  Fame  seemed  as  a  messenger  from  me  to 
you !  In  the  sound  of  applause  I  said,  '  They 
can  not  shut  out  the  air  that  will  carry  that 
sound  to  her  ears !  All  that  I  can  win  from 
Honor  shall  be  my  marriage-gifts  to  my  queenly 
bride.'  See  that  arrested  ]iile — begun  at  my 
son's  birth,  stopped  a  while  at  his  death,  recom- 
menced on  a  statelier  plan  when  I  thought  of 
your  footstep  on  its  floors — your  shadow  on  its 
walls.  Stopped  now  for  ever!  Architects  can 
build  a  palace;  can  tiiey  build  a  home?  But 
you — yon — you,  nil  the  while — j'our  smile  on 
another's  suit  —  your  thoughts  on  another's 
hearth  !" 

"Not  so! — not  so!  Your  image  never  for- 
sook me.  I  was  giddy,  thoughtless,  dazzled, 
entangled  ;  and  I  told  von  in  tlie  letter  you  re- 


turned to  me — told  you  that  I  had  been  de- 
ceived !" 

"Patience — patience!  Deceived!  Do  you 
imagine  that  I  do  not  see  all  that  passed  as  in  a 
magician's  glass  ?  Caroline  Montfort,  you  nev- 
er loved  me ;  you  never  knew  what  love  was. 
Thrown  suddenly  into  the  gay  world,  intoxica- 
ted by  the  efi'ect  of  your  own  beauty,  my  sombre 
figure  gradually  faded  dim — pale  ghost  indeed 
in  the  atmosphere  of  flowers  and  histres,  rank 
with  the  breath  of  flatterers.  Then  came  my 
lord  the  Marquis — a  cousin,  privileged  to  famil- 
iar intimacy,  to  visit  at  will,  to  ride  with  you, 
dance  with  you,  sit  side  by  side  with  you,  in 
quiet  corners  of  thronging  ball-rooms,  to  call 
you  '  Caroline.'  Tut,  tut — ye  axe  only  cousins, 
and  cousins  are  as  brothers  and  sisters  in  the 
aftectionate  House  of  Vipont ;  and  gossips  talk, 
and  young  ladies  envy — flnest  match  in  all  En- 
gland is  the  pretty-faced  lord  of  Montfort !  And 
your  mother,  who  had  said,  '  Wait  a  year'  to 
GuyDarrell,  must  have  dreamed  of  the  cousin, 
and  schemed  for  his  coronet,  when  she  said  it. 
And  I  was  unseen,  and  I  must  not  write ;  and 
the  absent  are  always  in  the  wrong — when  cous- 
ins are  present !  And  I  hear  your  mother  speak 
of  me — hear  the  soft  sound  of  her  damaging 
praises.  '  Another  long  speech  from  your  clever 
admirer!  Don't  fancy  he  frets;  that  kind  of 
man  thinks  of  nothing  but  blue-books  and  poli- 
tics.' And  your  cousin  proposes,  and  you  say 
with  a  sigh,  'No :  I  am  bound  to  Guy  Darrell ;' 
and  your  mother  says  to  my  Lord,  'Wait,  and 
still  come — as  a  cousin  !'  And  then,  day  by 
da}',  the  sweet  Mrs.  Lyndsay  drops  into  your  .ear 
the  hints  that  shall  poison  your  heart.  Some 
fable  is  dressed  to  malign  me ;  and  you  cry, 
'  'Tis  not  true  ;  prove  it  true,  or  I  still  keep  my 
faith  to  Guy  Darrell.'  Then  comes  the  kind 
compact — '  If  the  story  be  false,  my  cousin  must 
go  ;'  '  and  if  it  be  true,  you  will  be  my  own  du- 
teous child.  Alas  !  your  poor  cousin  is  break- 
ing his  heart.  A  lawyer  of  forty  has  a  heart 
made  of  parchment!'  Aha!  3'ou  were  entan- 
gled, and  of  course  deceived !  Your  letter  did 
not  explain  what  was  the  tale  told  to  you.  I 
care  not  a  rush  what  it  was.  It.  is  enough  for 
me  to  know  that  if  you  had  loved  me  yon  would 
have  loved  me  the  more  for  every  tale  that  be- 
lied me.  So  the  tale  was  credited,  because  a 
relief  to  credit  it.  So  the  compact  was  kept — 
so  the  whole  bargain  hurried  over  in  elegant 
privacy — place  of  barter  an  embassador's  chaji- 
el.  Bauble  for  bauble — a  jilt's  faith  for  a  man- 
nikin's  coronet.  Four  days  before  the  year  of 
trial  expired,  '  Only  four  days  more  !'  I  exclaim- 
ed, drunk  with  ra])ture.  The  journals  lie  be- 
fore me.  Three  columns  to  Guy  Darrell's  speech 
last  night  ;  a  column  more  to  its  effect  on  a 
senate,  on  an  em]iire  ;  and  two  lines — two  little 
lines — -to  the  sentence  that  struck  Guy  Darrell 
out  of  the  world  of  men!  'JMarriage  in  high 
life. — I\Iarquis  of  Montfort — Caroline  Lyndsay.' 
And  the  sun  did  not  fall  from  heaven !  Vul- 
garest  of  ends  to  the  tritest  of  romances  !  In 
tlie  gay  world  these  things  happen  every  day. 
Young  ladies  are  privileged  to  give  hopes  to  one 
man — their  hands  to  another.  'Is  tlie  sin  so 
unpardonable?'  you  ask  with  ingenuous  sim- 
plicity. Lady  Montfort,  that  depends!  Re- 
flect !  What  was  my  life  before  I  ])Ut  it  into 
your  keeping?     Barren  of  happiness,  I  grant — 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


237 


addened,  solitary — to  myself  a  thing  of  small 
alue  ?  But  what  was  that  life  to  others  ? — a 
liing  full  of  warm  beneficence,  of  active  uses, 
if  hardy  powers  fitted  to  noble  ends !  In  para- 
yzing  that  life  as  it  was  to  others,  there  may  be 
in  wider  and  darker  than  the  mere  infidelity 
o  love.  And  now  do  you  dare  to  ask,  '  Can  I 
igain  be  the  Caroline  of  old?'" 

'•I  ask  nothing — not  even  pardon,"  said  the 
niserable  woman.  "  I  might  say  something  to 
how  where  you  misjudge  me — something  that 
night  palliate ;  but  no,  let  it  be."  Her  accents 
rere  so  drearily  hopeless  that  Darrell  abruptly 
vithdrew  his  eyes  fi-om  her  face,  as  if  fearful 
hat  the  sight  of  her  woe  might  weaken  his 
esolve.  She  had  turned  mechanically  back, 
rhey  walked  on  in  gloomy  silence  side  by 
ide,  away  now  from  the  lake,  back  under  the 
)arbed  thorn-tree  —  back  by  the  moss-grown 
•rag — back  by  the  hollow  trunks,  and  over  the 
alien  leaves  of  trees  that  had  defied  the 
torms  of  centuries,  to  drop,  perhaps,  brittle 
md  sapless,  some  quiet  day  v.hen  every  wind  is 
uUed. 

The  flute  had  ceased  its  music  ;  the  air  had 
ITown  cold  and  piercing;  the  little  park  was 
oon  traversed  ;  the  gate  came  in  sight,  and  the 
lumble  vehicle  without  it.  Then,  involuntarily, 
)oth  stopjied ;  and  on  each  there  came  at  once 
he  consciousness  that  they  were  about  to  part — 
)art,  never  perhaps  in  this  world  to  meet  again ; 
tnd,  with  all  that  had  been  said,  so  much  un- 
pcken — their  hearts  so  ftdl  of  what,  alas !  their 
ips  could  not  speak. 

"Lady  ]Montfort,"  at  length  said  Darrell. 

At  the  sound  of  her  name  she  shivered. 

"  I  have  addressed  you  rudely — harshly — " 

"Xo — no — " 

"But  that  was  the  last  exercise  of  a  right 
vhich  I  nov,-  resign  forever.  I  spoke  to  her  who 
lad  once  been  Caroline  Lyndsay ;  some  gentler 
rords  are  due  to  the  widow  of  Lord  Moutfort. 
Whatever  the  wrongs  you  have  inflicted  on  me 
—wrongs  inexpiable — I  recognize  no  less  in 
our  general  nature  qualities  that  would  render 
ou,  to  one  whom  you  really  loved  and  had 
lever  deceived,  the  blessing  I  had  once  hoped 
ou  would  prove  to  me." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently,  piteously. 

"I  know  that  in  an  ill-assoi-ted  imion,  and 
imidst  all  the  temptations  to  which  flattered 
)eauty  is  exposed,  your  conduct  has  been  with- 
)ut  reproach.  Forget  the  old  man  whose  thoughts 
hould  now  be  on  Jiis  grave." 

"Hush,  hush — have  human  mercy!" 

"I  withdraw  and  repent  my  injustice  to  your 
notives  in  the  protection  you  have  given  to  the 
)Oor  girl  v.hom  Lionel  would  wed ;  I  thank  you 
or  that  protection — though  I  refuse  consent  to 
ny  kinsman's  prayer.  "\Yliatever  her  birth,  I 
nust  be  glad  to  know  that  she  whom  Lionel  so 
oves  is  safe  from  a  WTetch  like  Losely.  More 
—one  word  more — wait — it  is  hard  for  me  to 
ay  it- — Be  happy — I  can  not  pardon,  but  I  can 
)less  you.     Farewell  forever !" 

More  overpoweringly  crushed  by  his  tender- 
less  than  his  wrath,  before  Caroline  could  re- 
cover the  vehemence  of  her  sobs  he  had  ceased 
—he  was  gone — lost  in  the  close  gloom  of  a 
leighboring  thicket,  his  hurried  headlong  path 
)etrayed  by  the  rustle  of  mournful  boughs  swing- 
ng  back  with  their  withered  leaves. 


CHAPTER  H. 

EETEOSPECT. 

There  is  a  place  at  which  three  roads  meet,  sacred  to  that 
mysterious  goddess  called  Diana  on  earth,  Luna  (or 
the  Moon)  in  heaven,  and  Hecate  in  the  infernal  re- 
gions. At  this  place  pause  the  Virgins  pemiitted  to 
take  their  choice  of  the  three  roads.  Few  give  their 
preference  to  that  which  is  vowed  to  the  goddess  in  her 
name  of  Diana:  that  road,  cold  and  barren,  is  clothed 
by  no  roses  and  myrtles.  Eoses  and  niyrtles  vail  the 
entrance  to  both  the  others,  and  in  both  the  others  Hy- 
men has  much  the  same  gay-looking  temples.  But 
which  of  those  two  leads  to  the  celestial  Luna,  or  which 
of  them  conducts  to  the  infernal  Hecate,  not  one  nymph 
in  fifty  divines.  If  thy  heart  should  misgive  thee,  O 
nymph! — if,  though  cloud  vail  the  path  to  the  Moon, 
and  sunshine  gild  that  to  pale  Hecate — thine  instinct 
recoils  from  the  sunshine,  while  thou  darest  not  adven- 
ture the  cloud — thou  hast  still  a  choice  left — thou  hast 
still  the  safe  road  of  Diana.  Hecate,  O  nymph  !  is  the 
goddess  of  ghosts.  If  thou  takest  her  path  look  not 
back,  for  the  ghosts  are  behind  thee. 

i  Whex  we  slowly  recover  from  the  tumult  and 
passion  of  some  violent  distress  a  peculiar  still- 
ness falls  upon  the  mind,  and  the  atmosphere 
around  it  becomes,  in  that  stillness,  appallingly 
I  clear.  We  knew  not,  while  ^Testling  with  our 
I  woe,  the  extent  of  its  ravages.  As  a  land  the 
day  after  a  flood,  as  a  field  the  day  after  a  bat- 
tle, is  the  sight  of  our  own  sorrow,  when  we  no 
j  longer  have  to  stem  its  raging,  but  to  endure 
the  destruction  it  has  made.  Distinct  before 
I  Caroline  Montfort's  vision  stretched  the  waste 
I  of  her  misery — the  Past,  the  Present,  the  Fu- 
I  ture — all  seemed  to  blend  in  one  single  Desola- 
tion. A  strange  thing  it  is  how  all  lime  will 
converge  itself,  as  it  were,  into  the  burning- 
glass  of  a  moment!  There  runs  a  popular  su- 
perstition that  it  is  thus  in  the  instant  of  death  ; 
that  our  whole  existence  crowds  itself  on  the 
glazing  eye — a  panorama  of  all  we  have  done  on 
earth — just  as  the  sotil  restores  to  the  earth  its 
garment.  Certes,  there  are  hours  in  our  being, 
long  before  the  last  and  dreaded  one,  when  this 
phenomenon  comes  to  warn  us  that,  if  memorv' 
were  always  active,  time  would  be  never  gone. 
Rose  before  this  woman — who,  whatever  the 
justice  of  Darreirs  bitter  reproaches,  had  a  na- 
ture lovely  enough  to  justify  his  anguish  at  her 
loss— the  image  of  herself  at  that  turning-point 
of  life,  when  the  morning  mists  are  dimmed  on 
our  way,  yet  when  a  path  chosen  is  a  fate  de- 
cided. Yes  ;  she  had  excuses,  not  urged  to  the 
judge  who  sentenced,  nor  estimated  to  their  full 
extent  by  the  stern  equity  with  which,  amidst 
suffering  and  ^vTath,  he  had  desired  to  weigh 
her  cause. 

Caroline's  mother,  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  was  one  of 
those  parents  who  acquire  an  extraordinary  in- 
fluence over  their  children,  by  the  union  of  ca- 
ressing manners  with  obstinate  resolves.  She 
never  lost  control  of  her  temper  nor  hold  on  her 
object.  A  slight,  delicate,  languid  creature  too, 
who  would  be  sure  to  go  into  a  consumption  if 
unkindly  crossed.  With  much  strong  common 
sense,  much  knowledge  of  human  nature,  ego- 
tistical, worldly,  scheming,  heartless,  but  withal 
so  pleasing,  so  gentle,  so  bewitchingly  despotic, 
that  it  M'as  like  living  with  an  electro-biologist, 
who  unnerves  you  by  a  lock  to  knock  you  down 
with  a  feather.  In  only  one  great  purpose  of 
her  life  had  Mrs.  Lyndsay  failed.  When  Dar- 
rell, rich  by  the  rewards  of  his  profession  and 
the  bequest  of  his  namesake,  had  entered  Par- 
liament, and  risen  into  that  repute  which  cou- 


i 


238 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


fers  solid  and  brilliant  station,  Mrs.  Lyndsay 
conceived  the  idea  of  appropriating  to  herself 
his  honors  and  his  wealth  by  a  second  Hymen. 
Having  so  long  been  domesticated  in  his  house 
during  the  life  of  ISIrs.  Darrell,  an  intimacy  as 
of  near  relations  had  been  established  between 
them.  Her  soft  manners  attached  to  her  his 
children ;  and  after  Mrs.  Darrell's  deatli  ren- 
dered it  necessary  that  she  should  find  a  home 
of  her  own,  she  had  an  excuse,  in  Matilda's  af- 
fection for  her  and  for  Caroline,  to  be  more  fre- 
quently before  Darrell's  eyes,  and  consulted  by 
hini  yet  more  frequently  than  when  actually  a 
resident  in  his  house.  To  her  Darrell  confided 
the  proposal  which  had  been  made  to  him  by 
the  old  Marchioness  of  Montfort,  for  an  alliance 
batween  her  young  grandson  and  his  sole  sur- 
viving child.  Wealthy  as  was  the  House  of  Vi- 
pont,  it  was  among  its  traditional  maxims  that 
wealth  wasles  if  not  perpetually  recruited.  Ev- 
ery third  generation,  at  farthest,  it  was  the  dut}- 
of  that  House  to  marry  an  heiress.  Darrell's 
daughter,  just  seventeen,  not  yet  brought  out, 
would  be  an  heiress,  if  he  pleased  to  make  her 
so,  second  to  none  whom  the  research  of  the 
Marchioness  had  detected  within  the  drawing- 
rooms  and  nurseries  of  the  three  kingdoms. 
The  proposal  of  the  venerable  peeress  was  at 
first  very  naturally  gratifying  to  Darrell.  It 
was  an  euthanasia  for  the  old  knightly  race  to 
die  into  a  House  that  was  an  institution  in  the 
empire,  and  revive,  j)henix-like,  in  a  line  of 
peers,  who  might  perpetuate  the  name  of  the 
heiress  whose  quarterings  they  would  annex  to 
their  own,  and  sign  themselves  ''Darrell  Mont- 
fort." Said  Darrell  inly,  "On  the  whole,  sucli 
a  marriage  would  have  pleased  my  poor  father." 
It  did  not  please  Mrs.  Lyndsay.  The  bulk  of 
Darrell's  fortune  thus  settled  away,  he  himself 
would  be  a  very  different  match  for  Mrs.  Lynd- 
say ;  nor  was  it  to  her  convenience  that  Matilda 
should  be  thus  hastily  disposed  of,  and  the  stron- 
gest link  of  connection  between  Fulham  and 
Carlton  G.irdens  severed.  Mrs.  Lyndsay  had 
one  golden  rule,  which  I  respectfully  point  out 
to  ladies  who  covet  popularity  and  power:  She 
never  spoke  ill  of  any  one  whom  she  wished  to 
injure.  She  did  not,  therefore,  speak  ill  of  the 
Marquis  to  Darrell,  but  she  so  praised  him  thai, 
her  praise  alarmed.  She  ought  to  know  the 
young  peer  well ;  she  was  a  good  deal  with  the 
j\LT.rchiones5,  who  likeJ  her  pretty  manners. 
Till  then,  Darrell  had  only  noticed  this  green 
Head  of  the  Viponts  as  a  neat-looking  Head, 
too  modest  to  open  its  lips.  But  he  now  exam- 
ined the  head  with  anxious  deliberation,  and 
finding  it  of  the  poorest  possible  kind  of  wood, 
with  a  heart  to  match,  Guy  Darrell  had  the  au- 
dacity to  reject,  though  with  great  courtesy,  the 
idea  of  grafting  the  last  plant  of  his  line  on  a 
stem  so  pithless.  Though,  like  men  who  are 
at  once  very  affectionate  and  very  busy,  he  saw 
few  faults  in  liis  children,  or  indeed  in  any  one 
he  really  loved,  till  the  fault  was  forced  on  him, 
he  could  not  Init  be  aware  that  ^Matilda's  sole 
chance  of  becoming  a  hajipy  and  safe  wife  was 
in  uniting  herself  with  such  a  husband  as  would 
at  once  win  her  confidence  and  command  her  re- 
spect. He  trembled  when  he  thought  of  her  as 
the  wife  of  a  man  whose  rank  would  expose  her 
to  all  fashionable  temptations,  and  whose  charac- 
ter would  leave  her  without  a  guide  or  protector. 


The  ^larquis,  who  obeyed  his  grandmother 
from  habit,  and  who  had  lethargically  sanctioned 
her  proposals  to  Dai-rell,  evinced  the  liveliest 
emotion  he  had  ever  yet  betrayed  when  he 
learned  that  his  hand  was  rejected.  And  if  it 
were  possible  for  him  to  carry  so  small  a  senti- 
ment as  pique  into  so  large  a  passion  as  hate, 
from  that  moment  he  aggrandized  his  nature 
into  hatred.  He  would  have  given  half  his  lands 
to  have  spited  Guy  Darrell.  Jlrs.  Lyndsay  took 
care  to  be  at  hand  to  console  him,  and  the 
Marchioness  was  grateful  to  her  for  taking  that 
troublesome  task  upon  herself.  And  in  the 
course  of  their  conversations  Mrs.  Lyndsay  con- 
trived to  drop  into  his  mind  the  egg  of  a  pro- 
ject which  she  took  a  later  occasion  to  hatch 
under  her  plumes  of  down.  "  There  is  but  one 
kind  of  wife,  my  dear  Montfort,  who  could  in- 
crease your  importance ;  you  should  marry  a 
beauty ;  next  to  ro^valty  ranks  beauty."  The 
Head  nodded,  and  seemed  to  ruminate  for  some 
moments,  and  then,  apropos  des  bottes,  it  let  fall 
this  mysterious  monosyllable,  "Shoes."  By 
what  process  of  ratiocination  the  Head  had  thus 
arrived  at  the  feet,  it  is  not  for  me  to  conjecture. 
All  I  know  is  that,  from  that  moment,  'Slvs. 
Lyndsay  bestowed  as  much  thought  upon  Caro- 
line's chaussure,  as  if,  like  Cinderella,  Caroline's 
whole  destiny  in  this  world  hung  upon  her  slip- 
per. With  the  feelings  and  the  schemes  that 
have  been  thus  intimated,  this  sensible  lady's 
mortification  may  well  be  conceived  when  she 
was  startled  by  Darrell's  proposal,  not  to  herself, 
but  to  her  daughter.  Her  egotism  was  profound- 
ly shocked,  her  worldliness  cruelly  thwarted. 
With  Guy  Darrell  for  her  own  spouse,  the  ^lar- 
quis  of  Montfort  for  her  daughter's,  Mrs.  Lynd- 
say would  have  been  indeed  a  considerable  per- 
sonage in  the  world.  But  to  lose  Darrell  for 
herself,  the  JNIarquis  altogether — the  idea  was 
intolerable !  Yet,  since  to  have  refused  at  once 
for  her  portionless  daughter  a  man  in  so  high  a 
position,  and  to  v.diom  her  own  obligations  were 
so  great,  was  impossible,  she  adopted  a  policy, 
admirable  for  the  craft  of  its  conception  and  the 
dexterity  of  its  e.xecution.  In  exacting  the  con- 
dition of  a  year's  delay,  she  made  her  motives 
appear  so  loftily  disinterested,  so  magnanimous- 
ly friendly!  She  could  never  forgive  herself  if 
he — he — the  greatest,  the  best  of  men,  were 
again  rendered  unhappy  in  marriage  by  her  im- 
prudence (hers,  who  owed  to  him  her  all)!  yes, 
imprudent  indeed,  to  have  thrown  right  in  his 
way  a  pretty  coquettish  girl  ('for  Caroline  is  co- 
quettish, Mr.  Darrell ;  most  girls  so  pretty  are 
at  that  sillv  age').  In  short,  she  carried  her 
point  against  all  the  eloquence  Darrell  could 
employ,  and  covered  her  designs  by  the  sem- 
blance of  the  most  delicate  scruples,  and  the 
sacrifice  of  worldly  advantages  to  the  prudence 
which  belongs  to  high  principle  and  atfectionate 
caution. 

And  what  were  Caroline's  real  sentiments  for 
Guy  Darrell  ?  She  understood  them  now  on 
looking  back.  She  saw  herself  as  she  was  then 
— as  she  had  stood  under  the  beech-tree,  wlien 
the  heavenly  pity  that  was  at  the  core  of  her 
nature — when  the  venerating,  grateful  aflPection 
that  had  grown  with  her  growth,  made  her 
yearn  to  be  a  solace  and  a  joy  to  that  grand  and 
solitary  life.  Love  him  !  Oh  certainly  she  loved 
him,  devotedly,  fondly;  but  it  was  with  the  love 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


239 


of  a  child.  She  had  not  awakened  tlien  to  the 
love  of  woman.  Removed  from  his  presence, 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  great  world — yes,  Dar- 
rell  had  sketched  the  picture  with  a  stern  but 
not  altogether  an  untruthful  hand.  He  had  not, 
however,  fairly  estimated  the  inevitable  inilu- 
euce  which  a  mother,  such  as  Mrs.  Lyndsa}', 
Avould  exercise  over  a  girl  so  wholly  inexperi- 
enced —  so  guileless,  so  unsuspecting,  and  so 
filially  devoted.  He  could  not  appreciate — no 
man  can  —  the  mightiness  of  female  cunning. 
He  could  not  see  how  mesh  upon  mesh  the  soft 
Mrs.  Lyndsay  (pretty  woman,  with  pretty  man- 
ners) wove  her  web  round  the  "cousins,"  until 
Caroline,  who  at  first  had  thought  of  the  silent 
fair-haired  young  man  only  as  the  Head  of  her 
House,  pleased  with  attentions  that  kept  aloof 
admirers,  of  whom  she  thought  Guy  Darrell 
might  be  more  reasonably  jealous,  was  appalled 
to  hear  her  mother  tell  her  that  she  was  either 
the  most  heartless  of  coquets,  or  poor  Montfort 
was  the  most  ill-used  of  men.  But  at  this  time 
Jasper  Losely,  under  his  name  of  Hammond, 
brought  ills  wife  from  the  French  town  at  which 
they  had  been  residing  since  their  marriage,  to 
see  Mrs.  Lyndsay  and  Caroline  at  Paris,  and 
implore  their  intiuence  to  obtain  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  lier  father.  Matilda  soon  learned  from 
Mrs.  Lyndsay,  who  affected  the  most  enchanting 
candor,  the  nature  of  the  engagement  between 
Caroline  and  Darrell.  She  communicated  the 
information  to  Jasper,  who  viewed  it  with  very 
natural  alarm.  By  reconciliation  with  Guy  Dar- 
rell, Jasper  understood  something  solid  and  prac- 
tical— not  a  mere  sentimental  pardon,  added  to 
that  paltry  stipend  of  £700  a  year  which  he  had 
just  obtained — but  tlie  restoration  to  all  her 
rights  and  expectancies  of  the  heiress  he  had 
supposed  himself  to  marry.  He  had  by  no 
means  relinquished  the  belief  that  sooner  or 
later  Darrell  would  listen  to  the  Voice  of  Na- 
ture, and  settle  all  his  fortune  on  his  only  child. 
But  then,  for  the  Voice  of  N'ature  to  have  fair 
play,  it  was  clear  that  there  should  be  no  other 
child  to  plead  for.  And  if  Darrell  were  to  marry 
again,  and  to  have  sons,  what  a  dreadful  dilem- 
ma it  would  be  for  the  Voice  of  Nature !  Jasper 
was  not  long  in  discovering  that  Caroline's  en- 
gagement was  not  less  unwelcome  to  JMrs.  Lynd- 
say than  to  himself,  and  that  she  was  disposed 
to  connive  at  any  means  by  which  it  might  be 
annulled.  Matilda  was  first  employed  to  weaken 
the  bond  it  was  so  desirable  to  sever.  Matilda 
did  not  re]5roach,  but  she  wept.  She  was  sure 
7?0M'  that  she  should  be  an  outcast — her  children 
beggars.  Mrs.  Lyndsay  worked  up  this  com- 
plaint with  adroitest  skill.  Was  Caroline  sure 
that  it  was  not  most  dishonorable — most  treach- 
erous— to  rob  her  own  earliest  friend  of  the 
patrimony  that  would  otherwise  return  to  Ma- 
tilda with  Darrell's  pardon?  This  idea  became 
exquisitely  painful  to  the  high-spirited  Caroline, 
but  it  could  not  counterpoise  the  conviction  of 
the  greater  pain  she  should  occasion  to  the  breast 
that  so  conhded  in  her  faith,  if  that  faith  were 
broken.  Step  by  step  the  intrigue  against  the 
absent  one  proceeded.  I\Irs.  Lyndsay  thorough- 
ly understood  the  art  of  insinuating  doubts.  Guy 
Darrell,  a  man  of  the  world,  a  cold-blooded  law- 
yer, a  busy  politician,  he  break  his  heart  for  a 
girl!  No,  it  was  only  the  young,  and  especially 
the  young  when  not  remarkably  clever,  who  broke 


their  hearts  for  such  trifles.  Jlontfort,  indeed 
— there  was  a  man  whose  heart  could  be  broken ! 
whose  hapjjiness  could  be  blasted!  Dear  Guy 
Darrell  had  been  only  moved,  in  his  proposals, 
by  generosity — "  Something,  my  dear  child,  in 
your  own  artless  words  and  manner,  that  made 
him  fancy  he  had  won  your  affections  unknow-n 
to  yourself!  an  idea  that  he  was  bound  as  a  gen- 
tleman to  speak  out !  Just  like  him.  lie  has 
that  spirit  of  chivalry.  But  my  belief  is,  that 
he  is  quite  aware  by  this  time  how  foolish  such 
a  marriage  would  be,  and  would  thank  you  heart- 
ily if,  at  the  year's  end,  he  found  hiinself  free, 
and  you  ha])])ily  disposed  of  elsewhere,"  etc.,  etc. 
The  drama  advanced.  ]Mrs.  Lyndsay  evinced 
decided  pulmonary  symptoms.  Her  hectic  cough 
returned;  she  could  not  sleep;  her  days  were 
numbered— a  secret  grief.  Caroline  implored 
frankness,  and,  clasped  to  her  mother's  bosom, 
and  compassionately  bedewed  with  tears,  those 
hints  were  dropped  into  her  ear  which,  though 
so  worded  as  to  show  the  most  indulgent  for- 
bearance to  Darrell,  and  rather,  as  if  in  com- 
passion for  his  weakness  than  in  abhorrence  of 
his  perfidy,  made  Caroline  start  with  the  in- 
dignation of  revolted  purity  and  outraged  pride. 
"Were  this  true,  all  would  be  indeed  at  an  end 
between  us!  But  it  is  not  true.  Let  it  be 
proved."  "But,  my  dear,  dear  child,  I  could 
not  stir  in  a  matter  so  delicate.  I  could  not  aid 
in  breaking  off  a  marriage  so  much  to  your 
worldly  advantage,  unless  you  could  promise 
that,  in  rejecting  I\Ir.  Darrell,  you  would  accept 
your  cousin.  In  my  wretched  state  of  health, 
the  anxious  thought  of  leaving  you  in  the  world 
literally  penniless  would  kill  me  at  once !" 

"  Oh,  if  Guy  Darrell  be  false  (but  that  is  im- 
possible !),  do  with  me  all  you  will ;  to  obey  and 
please  you  would  be  the  only  comfort  left  to 
me." 

Thus  was  all  prepared  for  the  final  dinuuement. 
Mrs.  Lyndsay  had  not  gone  so  far  without  a  re- 
liance on  the  means  to  accomplish  her  object, 
and  for  these  means  she  had  stooped  to  be  in- 
debted to  the  more  practical  villainy  of  Matilda's 
husband. 

Jasper,  in  this  visit  to  Paris,  had  first  foi-med 
the  connection,  which  comjiletcd  the  wickedness 
of  his  perverted  nature,  with  that  dark  adven- 
turess who  has  flitted  shadow-like  through  part 
of  this  varying  narrative.  Gabrielle  Desmarets 
w'as  then  in  her  youth,  notorious  only  for  the 
ruin  she  had  inflicted  on  admiring  victims,  and 
the  superb  luxury  with  which  she  rioted  on  their 
plunder.  Captivated  by  the  personal  advant- 
ages for  which  Jasper  was  then  pre-eminently 
conspicuous,  she  willingly  associated  her  for- 
tunes with  his  own.  Gabrielle  was  one  of  those 
incarnations  of  evil  which  no  city  but  Paris  can 
accomplish  with  the  same  epicurean  refinement, 
and  vitiate  into  the  same  cynical  corruption. 
She  was  exceedingly  witty,  sharply  astute,  capa- 
ble of  acting  any  part,  carrying  out  any  plot; 
and  when  she  pleased  to  simulate  the  decorous 
and  immaculate  gentlewoman,  she  might  have 
deceived  the  most  experienced  roue.  Jas]ier 
presented  this  Artiste  to  his  unsuspecting  wife 
as  a  widow  of  rank,  who  was  about  to  visit  Lon- 
don, and  who  might  be  enabled  to  see  Mr.  Dar- 
rell, and  intercede  on  their  behalf.  IMatilda  fell 
readily  into  the  snare  ;  the  Frenchwoman  went 
to  London,  with  assumed  name  and  title,  and 


210 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


with  servants  completely  in  her  confidence.  And 
such  (as  the  reader  knows  already)  was  that  elo- 
quent baroness  who  had  pleaded  to  Darrell  the 
cause  of  his  penitent  daughter  I  No  doubt  tiie 
wily  Paruiieaae  had  calculated  on  the  effect  of 
her  arts  and  her  charms  to  decoy  him  into  at 
least  a  passin:^  forgetfulness  of  his  faith  to  an- 
other. But  if  she  could  not  succeed  there,  it 
might  equally  achieve  the  object  in  view  to  ob- 
tain the  credit  of  that  success.  Accordingly  she 
viTote  to  one  of  her  friends  at  Paris  letters 
stating  that  she  had  found  a  very  rich  admirer 
in  a  celebrated  English  statesman,  to  whom  she 
was  indebted  for  her  establishment,  etc. ;  and 
alluding,  in  very  witty  and  satirical  terms,  to  his 
matrimonial  engagement  with  the  young  English 
beauty  at  Paris,  who  was  then  creating  such  a 
sensation — an  engagement  of  which  she  repre- 
sented her  admirer  to  be  heartily  sick,  and  ex- 
tremely repentant.  Without  mentioning  names, 
her  descriptions  were  unmistakable.  Jasper,  of 
course,  presented  to  Mrs.  Lyndsay  those  letters 
(which,  he  said,  the  person  to  whom  they  were 
addressed  had  communicated  to  one  of  her  own 
gay  friends),  and  suggested  that  their  evidence 
against  Darrell  would  be  complete  in  Miss  Lynd- 
say's  eyes  if  some  one,  whose  veracity  Caroline 
could  not  dispute,  could  con'oborate  the  asser- 
tions of  the  letters  ;  it  would  be  quite  enough  to 
do  so  if  Mr.  Darrell  were  even  seen  entering  or 
leaving  the  house  of  a  person  whose  mode  of 
life  was  so  notorious.  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  v.ho,  with 
her  consummate  craft,  saved  her  dignity  by  af- 
fected blindness  to  the  artifices  at  which  she 
connived,  declared  that,  in  a  matter  of  inquiry 
which  involved  the  private  character  of  a  man 
so  eminent,  and  to  whom  she  owed  so  much, 
she  would  not  trust  his  name  to  the  gossip  of 
others.  She  herself  would  go  to  London.  She 
knew  that  odious,  but  too  fascinating,  Gabrielle 
by  sight  (as  every  one  did  who  went  to  the  opera, 
or  drove  in  the  Bois  dc  Boulogne^.  Jasper  un- 
dertook that  the  Parislenne  should  show  herself 
at  her  balcony  at  a  certain  day  at  a  certain  hour, 
and  that,  at  that  hour,  Darrell  should  call  and 
be  admitted ;  and  Mrs.  Lyndsay  allowed  that 
that  evidence  would  sutnce.  Sensible  of  the 
power  over  Caroline  that  she  would  derive  if, 
with  her  habits  of  languor  and  her  delicate  health, 
she  could  say  that  she  had  undertaken  such  a 
journey  to  be  convinced  with  her  own  eyes  of  a 
charge  that,  if  true,  would  influence  her  daugh- 
ter's conduct  and  destiny — Mrs.  Lyndsay  did  go 
to  London — did  see  Gabrielle  Desmarets  at  her 
balcony — did  see  Darrell  enter  the  house ;  and 
on  her  return  to  Paris  did,  armed  with  this  tes- 
timony, and  with  the  letters  that  led  to  it,  so 
work  upon  her  daughter's  mind  that  the  next 
day  the  Marquis  of  Slontfort  was  accepted.  But 
the  year  of  Darrell's  probation  was  nearly  ex- 
pired ;  all  delay  would  be  dangerous — all  ex- 
planation would  be  fatal,  and  must  be  forestalled. 
Xor  could  a  long  courtship  be  kept  secret ;  Dar- 
rell might  hear  of  it,  and  come  over  at  once ; 
and  the  Marquis's  ambitious  kinsfolk  would  not 
fail  to  interfere  if  the  news  of  his  intended  mar- 
riage with  a  portionless  cousin  came  to  their 
ear.s.  Lord  ]\Iontfort,  who  was  awed  by  Carr, 
and  extremely  afraid  of  his  grandmother,  was 
not  less  anxious  for  secrecy  and  expedition  than 
Mrs.  Lyndsay  herself. 

Thu-s  then,   ilrs.  Lyndsay  triumphed,  and 


while  her  daughter  was  still  under  the  influence 
of  an  excitement  which  clouded  her  judgment, 
and  stung  her  into  rashness  of  action  as  an  es- 
cape from  the  torment  of  reflection — thus  were 
solemnized  Caroline's  unhappy  and  splendid 
nuptials.  The  Marquis  hired  a  villa  in  the  de- 
lightful precincts  of  Fontainebleau  for  his  honey- 
moon ;  that  moon  was  still  young  when  the 
Marquis  said  to  himself,  "I  don't  find  that  it 
produces  honey."  When  he  had  first  been  at- 
tracted toward  Caroline,  she  was  all  life  and 
joy — too  much  of  a  child  to  jiiue  for  Darrell's 
absence,  while  credulously  confident  of  their 
future  union — her  spirits  naturally  wild  and  live- 
ly, and  the  world,  opening  at  her  feet,  so  novel 
and  so  brilliant.  This  fresh  gayetj  had  amused 
the  Marquis — he  felt  cheated  when  he  found  it 
gone.  Caroline  might  be  gentle,  docile,  sub- 
missive; but  those  virtues,  though  of  higher 
quality  than  glad  animal  spirits,  are  not  so  en- 
tertaining. His  own  exceeding  sterility  of  mind, 
and  feeling  was  not  apparent  till  in  the  tetes-a- 
ieies  of  conjugal  life.  A  good-looking  young '^ 
man,  with  a  thorough-bred  air,  who  rides  well, 
dances  well,  and  holds  his  tongue,  may,  in  all 
mixed  societies,  pass  for  a  shy  youth  of  sensi- 
tive genius.  But  when  he  is  your  companion 
for  life,  and  all  to  yourself,  and  you  find  that, 
when  he  does  talk,  he  has  neither  an  idea  nor 
a  sentiment — alas !  alas  for  v"ou,  young  bride, 
if  you  have  ever  known  the  charm  of  intellect,  / 
or  the  sweetness  of  sympathy.  But  it  v.';is  not 
for  Caroline  to  complain  ;  struggling  against  her 
own  weight  of  sorrow,  she  had  no  immediate 
perception  of  her  companion's  vapidity.  It  was 
he,  poor  man,  who  complained.  He  just  de- 
tected enough  of  her  superiority  of  intelligence 
to  suspect  that  he  was  humiliated,  while  sure 
that  he  was  bored.  An  incident  converted  his 
gi'owing  indifference  into  permanent  dislike  not 
many  days  after  their  marriage. 

Lord  Montfort,  sauntering  into  Caroline's 
room,  found  her  insensible  on  the  floor — an  ojien 
letter  by  her  side.  Summoning  her  maid  to  her 
assistance,  he  took  the  marital  privilege  of  read- 
ing the  letter  which  had  apparently  caused  her 
swoon.  It  was  from  Matilda,  and  written  in  a 
state  of  maddened  excitement.  Matilda  had 
little  enough  of  what  is  called  heart ;  but  she 
had  an  intense  selfishness,  which,  in  point  of 
suffering,  supplies  the  place  of  a  heart.  It  was 
not  because  she  could  not  feel  for  the  wrongs  of 
another  that  she  could  not  feel  anguish  for  her 
own.  Arabella  was  avenged.  The  cold-blooded 
snake  that  had  stung  her  met  the  fang  of  the 
cobra-capella.  Matilda  had  learned  from  some 
anonymous  correspondent  (probably  a  rival  of 
Gabrielle's)  of  Jasper's  liaison  with  that  adven- 
turess. But  half-recovered  from  her  confine- 
ment, she  had  risen  from  her  bed — -hurried  to 
Paris  (for  the  pleasuresiof  which  her  husband 
had  left  her) — seen  this  wretched  Gabrielle — 
recognized  in  her  the  false  baroness  to  whom 
Jasper  had  presented  her — to  whom,  by  Jasper's 
dictation,  she  had  written  such  affectionate  let- 
tei-s — whom  she  had  employed  to  plead  her  cause 
to  her  father ; — seen  Gabrielle — seen  her  at  her 
own  luxurious  apartment,  Jasper  at  home  there 
— burst  into  vehement  wrath — roused  up  the  co- 
bra-capella ;  and  on  declaring  that  she  would  sep- 
arate from  her  husband,  go  back  to  her  father,  tell 
her  wrongs,  ajjpeal  to  his  mercy,  Gabrielle  calm- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


241 


ly  replied,  "  Do  so,  and  Iwill  take  care  that  your 
father  shall  know  that  your  plea  for  his  pardon 
through  3Iadame  la  Baronne  was  a  scheme 
to  blacken  his  name,  and  to  frustrate  his  mar- 
riage. Do  not  think  that  he  will  suppose  you  did 
not  connive  at  a  project  so  sly ;  he  must  know 
you  too  well,  pretty  innocent."  No  match  for 
Gabrielle  Desmarets,  ^latilda  flung  from .  the 
house,  leaving  Jasper  whistling  an  air  from  Fi- 
garo ;  returned  alone  to  the  French  town,  from 
which  slie  now  wrote  to  Caroline,  pouring  out 
her  wrongs,  and  without  seeming  sensible  that 
Caroline  had  been  wronged  too,  expressing  her 
fear  that  her  father  might  believe  her  an  accom- 
plice in  Jasper's  plot,  and  refuse  her  the  means 
to  live  apart  from  the  wretch,  upon  whom  she 
heaped  every  epithet  that  just  indignation  could 
suggest  to  a  feeble  mind.  The  latter  part  of 
the  letter,  blurred  and  blotted,  was  iivoherent, 
almost  raving.  In  fact,  ]Matilda  was  thtu  seized 
by  the  mortal  illness  which  hurried  her  to  the 
grave.  To  the  Marquis  much  of  this  letter  was 
extremely  uninteresting — much  of  it  quite  in- 
comprehensible. He  could  not  see  why  it  should 
so  overpoweringly  affect  his  wife.  Only  those 
passages  which  denounced  a  scheme  to  frustrate 
some  marriage  meditated  by  Mr.  Darrell  made 
him  somewhat  uneasy,  and  appeared  to  him  to 
demand  explanation.  But  Caroline,  in  the  an- 
guish to  which  she  awakened,  forestalled  his  in- 
quiries. To  her  but  two  thoughts  were  present 
— how  she  had  wronged  Darrell — how  ungrate- 
ful and  faithless  she  must  seem  to  him  ;  and  in 
the  impulse  of  her  remorse,  and  in  the  child- 
like candor  of  her  soul,  artlessly,  ingenuously 
she  poured  out  her  feelings  to  the  husband  she 
had  taken  as  counselor  and  guide,  as  if  seek- 
ing to  guard  all  her  sorrow  for  the  past  from  a 
sentiment  that  might  render  her  less  loyal  to  the 
responsibilities  which  linked  her  future  to  an- 
other's. A  man  of  sense  would  have  hailed,  in 
so  noble  a  confidence  (however  it  might  have 
pained  him  for  the  time),  a  guarantee  for  the 
happiness  and  security  of  his  wliole  existence. 
He  would  have  seen  how  distinct  from  that  ar- 
dent love  which,  in  Caroline's  new  relation  of 
life,  would  have  bordered  upon  guilt,  and  been 
cautious  as  guilt  against  disclosing  its  secrets, 
was  the  infantine,  venerating  affection  she  had 
felt  for  a  man  so  far  removed  from  her  by  years 
and  the  development  of  intellect — an  affection 
which  a  young  husband,  trusted  with  every 
thought,  every  feeling,  might  reasonably  hope  to 
eclipse.  A  little  forbearance,  a  little  of  delicate 
and  generous  tenderness,  at  that  moment,  would 
have  secured  to  Lord  I\Iontfort  the  warm  devo- 
tion of  a  grateful  heart,  in  which  the  grief  that 
overflowed  was  not  for  the  irreplaceable  loss  of 
an  earlier  lover,  but  the  repentant  shame  for 
An'ong  and  treachery  to  a  confiding  friend. 

But  it  is  in  vain  to  ask  from  any  man  that 
which  is  not  in  him!  Lord  Montfort  listened 
with  sullen,  stolid  displeasure.  That  Caroline 
should  feel  the  slightest  pain  at  any  cause  which 
had  canceled  her  engagement  to  that  odious 
Darrell,  and  had  raised  her  to  the  rank  of  his 
marchioness,  was  a  crime  in  his  eyes  never  to 
be  expiated.  He  considered,  not  without  rea- 
son, that  INIrs.  Lyndsay  had  shamefully  deceived 
him ;  and  fully  believed  that  she  had  been  an 
accomplice  with  Jasper  in  that  artifice  which 
he  was  quite   gAitleman   enough  to  consider 

Q 


placed  those  who  had  planned  it  out  of  the  pale 
of  his  acquaintance.  And  when  Caroline,  who 
had  been  weeping  too  vehemently  to  read  her 
lord's  countenance,  came  to  a  close.  Lord  ilont- 
fort  took  up  his  hat  and  said,  "  I  beg  never  to 
hear  again  of  this  lawyer  and  his  very  disrepu- 
table famih-  connections.  As  you  say,  you  and 
your  mother  have  behaved  very  ill  to" him;  but 
you  don't  seem  to  understand  that  you  have  be- 
haved much  worse  to  me.  As  to  'condescend- 
ing to  write  to  him,  and  enter  into  explanations 
how  you  came  to  be  Lady  Montfort,  it  would 
be  so  lowering  to  me  that  I  would  never  forgive 
it — never.  I  would  just  as  soon  that  you  run 
away  at  once — sooner.  As  for  Mrs.  Lyndsay, 
I  shall  foi-bid  her  entering  my  house.  '  When 
you  have  done  ciying,  order  your  things  to  be 
packed  up.  I  shall  return  to  England  to-mor- 
row." 

That  was  perhaps  the  longest  speech  Lord 
Montfort  ever  addressed  to  his  wife  ;  perhaps 
it  was  also  the  rudest.  From  that  time  he  re- 
garded her  as  some  Spaniard  of  ancient  days 
might  regard  a  guest  on  whom  he  was  compelled 
to  bestow  the  rites  of  hospitality — to  whom  he 
gave  a  seat  at  his  board,  a  chair  at  his  hearth, 
but  for  whom  he  entertained  a  profound  aver- 
sion, and  kept  at  invincible  distance,  with  all 
the  ceremony  of  dignified  dislike.  Once  only 
during  her  wedded  life  Caroline  again  saw  Dar- 
rell. It  was  immediately  on  her  return  to  En- 
gland, and  little  more  than  a  month  after  her 
maiTiage.  It  was  the  day  on  which  Parliament 
•had  been  prorogued  preparatory  to  its  dissolu- 
tion— the  last  Parliament  of  which  Guy  Darrell 
was  a  member.  Lady  jMontfort's  carriage  was 
detained  in  the  throng  with  which  the  cere- 
monial had  filled  the  streets,  and  Darrell  passed 
it  on  horseback.  It  was  but  one  look  in  that 
one  moment ;  and  the  look  never  ceased  to 
hauut  her — a  look  of  such  stern  disdain,  but 
also  of  such  deep  despair.  No  language  can 
exaggerate  the  eloquence  which  there  is  in  a 
human  countenance,  when  a  great  and  tortured 
spirit  speaks  out  from  it  accusingly  to  a  soui 
that  comprehends.  The  crushed  heart,  the  rav- 
aged existence,  were  bared  before  her  in  that 
glance,  as  clearly  as  to  a  wanderer  through  the 
night  are  the  rents  of  the  pirecipice  in  the  flasli 
of  the  lightning.  So  they  encountered — so, 
without  word,  they  parted.  To  him  that  mo- 
ment decided  the  flight  from  active  life  to  which 
his  hopeless  thoughts  jiad  of  late  been  wooinir 
the  jaded,  weary  man.  In  safet\^  to  his  ver\ 
conscience,  he  would  not  risk  the  certainty  thu- 
to  encounter  one  whom  it  convulsed  his  whoh 
being  to  remember  was  another's  wife.  In  tha. 
highest  and  narrowest  sphere  of  the  great  Lon- 
don world  to  which  Guy  Darrell's  political  dis- 
tinction condemned  his  social  life,  it  was  im- 
possible but  what  he  should  be  brought  fre- 
quently into  collision  with  Lord  IMontfort,  the 
Head  "of  a  House  with  which  Darrell  himself 
was  connected — the  most  powerful  patrician  of 
the  party  of  which  Darrell  was  so  conspicuous 
a  chief.  Could  he  escape  Lady  INIontfort's  pres- 
ence, her  name,  at  least,  would  be  continual!; 
in  his  ears.  From  that  fatal  beauty  he  couki 
no  more  hide  than  from  tne  sun. 

This  thought,  and  the  terror  it  occasioned 
him,  completed  his  resolve  on  the  instant.  The 
next  day  he  was  in  the  gi'oves  of  Fawley,  and 


242 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


amazed  the  world  by  dating  from  that  retreat 
a  farewell  address  to  his  constituents.  A  few 
days  after,  the  news  of  his  daughter's  death 
reached  him  ;  and  as  that  event  became  known, 
it  accounted  to  many  for  his  retirement  for  a 
while  from  public  life. 

But  to  Caroline  Montfort,  and  to  her  alone, 
the  secret  of  a  career  blasted,  a  fame  renounced, 
was  unmistakably  revealed.  For  a  time  she 
was  tortured,  in  every  society  she  entered,  by 
speculation  and  gossip  which  brought  before  her 
the  memory  of  his  genius,  the  accusing  sound 
of  his  name.  But  him,  who  withdraws  himself 
from  the  world,  the  world  soon  forgets ;  and  by 
degrees  DaiTcU  became  as  little  spoken  of  as 
the  dead. 

Mrs.  Lyndsay  had  never,  during  her  schemes 
on  Lord  Montfort,  abandoned  her  own  original 
design  on  Darrell.  And  when,  to  her  infinite 
amaze  and  mortification.  Lord  Montfort,  before 
the  first  month  of  his  marriage  expired,  took 
care,  in  the  fewest  possible  words,  to  dispel  her 
dream  of  governing  the  House,  and  residing  in 
the  houses,  of  Vipont,  as  the  lawful  regent  dur- 
ing the  life-long  minority  to  which  she  had  con- 
demned both  the  submissive  Caroline  and  the 
lethargic  Marquis,  she  hastened  by  letter  to 
exculpate  herself  to  Darrell — laid,  of  covirse,  all 
the  blame  on  Caroline.  Alas !  had  not  she  al- 
ways warned  him  that  Caroline  was  not  worthy 
of  him? — him,  the  greatest,  the  best  of  men, 
etc.,  etc.  Darrell  replied  by  a  single  cut  of 
his  trenchant  sarcasm — sarcasm  which  shore 
through  her  cushion  of  down  and  her  vail  of 
gauze  like  the  sword  of  Saladin.  The  old  Alar- 
chioness  turned  her  back  upon  Mrs.  Lyndsay. 
Lady  Selina  was  crushingly  civil.  The  pretty 
woman  with  pretty  manners,  no  better  off  for 
all  the  misery  she  had  occasioned,  went  to 
Kome,  caught  cold,  and,  having  no  one  to  nurse 
her  as  Caroline  had  done,  fell  at  last  into  a  real 
consumption,  and  faded  out  of  the  world  ele- 
gantly and  spitefully,  as  fades  a  rose  that  still 
leaves  its  thorns  behind  it. 

Caroline's  nature  grew  developed  and  exalted 
by  the  responsibilities  she  had  accepted,  and  by 
the  purity  of  lier  grief.  She  submitted,  as  a  just 
retribution,  to  the  solitude  and  humiliation  of 
her  wedded  lot ;  she  earnestly,  virtuously  strove 
to  banish  from  her  heart  every  sentiment  that 
could  recall  to  her  more  of  Darrell  than  the  re- 
morse of  having  so  darkened  a  life  that  had  been 
to  her  childhood  so  benignant,  and  to  her  youth 
so  confiding.  As  we  have  seen  her,  at  the  men- 
tion of  Darrell's  name — at  the  allusion  to  his 
griefs  —  fly  to  the  side  of  her  ungenial  lord, 
though  he  was  to  her  but  as  the  owner  of  the 
name  she  bore,  so  it  was  the  saving  impulse  of 
a  delicate,  watchful  conscience  that  kept  her  as 
honest  in  thought  as  she  was  irreproachable  in 
conduct.  But  vainly,  in  summoning  her  intel- 
lect to  the  relief  of  her  heart — vainly  had  she 
sought  to  find  in  the  world  friendships,  compan- 
ionships, that  might  eclipse  the  memory  of  the 
mind  so  lofty  in  its  antique  mould — so  tender  in 
its  dejjths  of  unsuspected  sweetness — which  had 
been  withdrawn  from  her  existence  before  she 
could  fully  comprehend  its  rarity,  or  appreciate 
its  worth. 


At  last  she  became  free  once  more  ;  and  then 
she  had  dared  thoroughly  to  examine  into  her 
own  heart,  and  into  the  nature  of  that  hold 
which  the  image  of  Darrell  still  retained  on  its 
remembrances.  And  precisely  because  she  was 
convinced  that  she  had  succeeded  in  preserving 
her  old  childish  affection  for  him  free  from  the 
growth  into  tliat  warm  love  which  would  have 
been  guilt  if  so  encouraged,  she  felt  the  more 
free  to  volunteer  the  atonement  which  might 
permit  her  to  dedicate  herself  to  his  remaining 
years.  Thus,  one  day,  after  a  convei-sation  with 
Alban  Morley,  in  which  Alban  had  spoken  of 
Darrell  as  the  friend,  almost  the  virtual  guard- 
ian, of  her  infancy ;  and,  alluding  to  a  few  lines 
just  received  from  him,  brouglU- vividly  before 
Caroline  the  picture  of  Darrelfs  melancholy 
wanderings  and  blighted  life — thus  had  she,  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  written  the  letter 
which  had  reached  Darrell  at  Malta.  In  it  she 
referred  but  indirectly  to  the  deceit  that  had 
been  practiced  on  herself — far  too  delicate  to 
retail  a  scandal  which  she  felt  to  be  an  insult  to 
his  dignity,  in  which,  too,  the  deceiving  parties 
were  his  daughter's  husband  and  her  own  mo- 
ther. No  doubt  every  true  woman  can  under- 
stand why  she  thus  wrote  to  Darrell,  and  every 
true  man  can  equally  comprehend  why  that  let- 
ter failed  in  its  object,  and  was  returned  to  her 
in  scorn.  Hers  was  the  yearning  of  meek,  pas- 
sionless aftection,  and  his  the  rebuke  of  sensi- 
tive, embittered,  indignant  love. 

But  now,  as  all  her  past,  with  its  interior  life, 
glided  before  her,  by  a  grief  the  most  intolerable 
she  had  yet  known,  the  woman  became  aware 
that  it  was  no  longer  penitence  for  the  injured 
friend — it  was  despair  for  the  lover  she  had  lost. 
In  that  stormy  interview,  out  of  all  the  confused 
and  struggling  elements  of  her  life-long  self-re- 
proach, LOVE— the  love  of  woman — had  flashed 
suddenly,  luminously,  as  the  love  of  youth  at 
first  sight.  Strange — but  the  very  disparity  of 
years  seemed  gone!  She,  the  matured,  sor- 
rowful woman,  was  so  much  nearer  to  the  man, 
still  young  in  heart,  and  little  changed  in  per- 
son, than  the  g.ay  girl  of  seventeen  had  been  to 
the  grave  friend  of  forty !  Strange,  but  those 
vehement  reproaches  had  awakened  emotions 
deeper  in  the  core  of  the  wild  mortal  breast 
than  all  that  early  chivalrous  honiage  which 
had  exalted  her  into  the  ideal  of  dreaming  po- 
ets. Strange,  strange,  strange  !  But  where 
there  is  nothing  strange,  tlicre — is  there  ever 
love  ? 

And  with  this  revelation  of  her  own  altered 

heart  came  the  clearer  and  fresher  insight  into 

the  nature  and  cliaracter  of  the  man  she  loved. 

Hitherto  she  had  recognized  but  his  virtues — 

now  she  beheld  his  failings ;  beholding  them  as 

'  if  virtues,  loved  him  more;  and,  loving  him, 

more  despaired.     She  recognized  that  all-per- 

I  vading  indomitable    pride,  which,  interwoven 

!  with  his  sense  of  honor,  became  as  relentless 

as  it  was  unrevengeful.      She  comprehended 

now,  that  the  more  he  loved  her,  the  less  he 

would  forgive;   and,  recalling  the  unexpected 

gentleness  of  his  fiirewell  words,  she  felt  th.at 

in  his  jaomised  blessing  lay  the  sentence  that 

I  annihilated  every  hope ! 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


2+3 


CHAPTER  HL 

Whatever  the  number  of  a  man's  friends,  there  will  be 
times  in  his  life  when  he  has  one  too  few ;  but  if  he 
has  only  one  enemy,  he  is  lucky  indeed  if  he  has  not 
one  too  many. 

A  COLD  night;  sharp  frost;  winter  set  in. 
The  shutters  are  closed,  the  curtains  drawn,  the 
fire  burns  clear,  and  the  lights  are  softly  shaded 
in  Alban  Jklorley's  drawing-room.  The  old  bach- 
elor is  at  home  again.  He  had  returned  that 
dav;  sent  to  Lionel  to  come  to  him;  and  Li- 
onel had  already  told  him  what  had  transpired 
in  his  absence — "from  the  identification  of  Waife 
with  William  Losely,  to  Lady  ^lontfort's  viiit 
to  Fawley,  which  had  taken  place  two  days  be- 
fore, and  of  which  she  had  informed  Lionel  by 
a  few  hasty  lines,  stating  her  inability  to  soften 
Mr.  Darrell's  objections  to  the  alliance  between 
Lionel  and  Sophy;  severely  blaming  herself 
that  those  objections  had  not  more  forcibly  pre- 
sented themselves  to  her  own  mind,  and  conclud- 
ing with  expressions  of  sympathy,  and  appeals 
to  fortitude,  in  which,  however  brief,  the  exqui- 
site kindness  of  her  nature  so  diffused  its  charm, 
that  the  soft  words  soothed  insensibly,  like  those 
sounds  which  in  Nature  itself  do  soothe  us  we 
know  not  why. 

The  poor  Colonel  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  painful  subjects.  Though  he  had  no  very 
keen  sympathy  for  the  sorrows  of  lovers,  and 
no  credulous  faith  in  everlasting  attachments, 
Lionel's  portraiture  of  the  young  girl,  who  form- 
ed so  mysterious  a  link  between  the  two  men 
who,  in  varying  ways,  had  touched  the  finest 
springs  in  his  own  heart,  compelled  a  compas- 
sionate and  chivalrous  interest,  and  he  was  deep- 
ly impressed  by  the  quiet  of  Lionel's  dejection. 
The  young  man  uttered  no  complaints  of  the 
inflexibility  with  which  Darrell  had  destroyed 
his  elysium.  He  bowed  to  the  will  with  which 
it  was  in  vain  to  argue,  and  which  it  would  have 
been  a  criminal  ingratitude  to  defy.  But  his 
youth  seemed  withered  up ;  down-eyed  and  list- 
less he  sank  into  that  stupor  of  despondency 
which  so  drearily  simulates  the  calm  of  resigna- 
tion. 

"I  have  but  one  wish  now,"  said  he,  "  and 
that  is,  to  change  at  once  into  some  regiment 
on  active  sen-ice.  I  do  not  talk  of  courting 
danger  and  seeking  death.  That  would  be  ei- 
ther a  senseless  commonplace,  or  a  threat,  as  it 
were,  to  Heaven !  But  I  need  some  vehemence 
of  action — some  positive  and  irresistible  call 
upon  honor  or  duty  that  may  force  me  to  con- 
tend against  this  strange  heaviness  that  settles 
down  on  my  whole  life.  Therefore,  I  entreat 
you  so  to  arrange  for  me,  and  break  it  to  Jlr. 
Darrell  in  such  terms  as  may  not  needlessly 
pain  him  by  the  obtrusion  of  my  sufferings. 
For,  while  I  know  him  well  enough  to  be  con- 
vinced that  nothing  could  move  him  from  re- 
solves in  which  he  had  intrenched,  as  in  a  cita- 
del, his  pride  or  his  creed  of  honor,  I  am  sure 
that  he  would  take  into  his  own  heart  all  the 

crrief  which  those  resolves  occasioned  to  anoth- ' 

»    '>  1 

er  s. 

"You  do  him  justice  there!"  cried  Alban ;  i 
"  you  are  a  noble  fellow  to  understand  him  so  I 
well !  Sir,  you  have  in  you  the  stuff  that  makes  j 
English  gentlemen  such  generous  soldiers."        | 

'•Action,  action,  action  I"  exclaimed  Lionel.  ' 


"  Strife,  strife !  No  other  chance  of  cure.  Rest 
is  so  crushing,  solitude  so  dismal." 

Lo!  how  contrasted  the  effect  of  a  similar 
cause  of  grief  at  different  stages  of  life !  Chase 
the  first  day-dreams  of  our  youth,  and  we  cry, 
"Action — Strife!"  In  that  cry,  unconsciously 
to  ourselves,  Hope  speaks,  and  profters  worlds 
of  emotion  not  yet  exhausted.  Disperse  the 
last  golden  illusion  in  which  the  image  of  hap- 
piness cheats  our  experienced  manhood,  and 
Hope  is  silent ;  she  has  no  more  words  to  offer 
— unless,  indeed,  she  drop  her  earthly  attri- 
butes, change  her  less  solemn  name,  and  float 
far  out  of  sight  as  "  Faith  I" 

Alban  made  no  immediate  reply  to  Lionel ; 
but,  seating  himself  still  more  comfortably  in 
his  chair — planting  his  feet  still  more  at  ease 
upon  his  fender — the  kindly  man  of  the  world 
silently  revolved  all  the  possible  means  by  which 
Darrell  might  yet  be  softened  and  Lionel  ren- 
dered happy.  His  reflections  dismayed  him. 
'"Was  there  ever  such  untoward  luck,"  he  said 
at  last,  and  peevishly,  "that  out  of  the  whole 
world  you  should  fall  in  love  with  the  very  girl 
against  whom  Dan-ell's  feelings  (prejudices,  if 
you  please)  must  be  mailed  in  adamant  I  Con- 
vinced, and  apparently  with  every  reason,  that 
she  is  not  his  daughter's  child,  but,  however  in- 
nocently, an  impostor,  how  can  he  receive  her 
as  his  young  kinsman's  bride?  How  can  we 
exjicct  it  ?" 

"  But,"  said  Lionel,  "  if,  on  farther  investiga- 
tion, she  prove  to  be  his  daughter's  child — the 
sole  surviving  representative  of  his  fine  and 
name  ?" 

"///s  name!  No!  of  the  name  of  Losely — 
the  name  of  that  turbulent  sharper  who  may  yet 
die  on  the  gibbet — of  that  poor,  dear,  lovable 
rascal  Willy,  who  was  goose  enough  to  get  him- 
self transported  for  robbery ! — a  felon's  grand- 
child the  representative  of  Darrell's  line !  But 
how  on  earth  came  Lady  Montfort  to  favor  so 
wild  a  project,  and  encourage  you  to  share  in 
it  ? — she  who  ought  to  have  known  Darrell  bet- 
ter?" 

"Alas!  she  saw  but  Sophy's  exquisite,  sim- 
ple virtues,  and  inborn  grace ;  and,  believing 
her  claim  to  Darrell's  lineage.  Lady  Montfort 
thought  but  of  the  joy  and  blessing  one  so  good 
and  so  loving  might  bring  to  his  joyless  hearth. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  morbid  pride  and  mould- 
ering ancestors,  but  of  soothing  charities  and 
loving  ties.  And  Lady  ilontfort,  I  now  sus- 
pect, in  her  scheme  for  our  happiness — for  Dar- 
rell's —  had  an  interest  which  involved  her 
own !" 

"  Her  own  I" 

"  Yes  ;  I  see  it  all  now." 

"  See  what  ?  you  puzzle  me." 

"  I  told  you  that  Darrell,  in  his  letter  to  me, 
wrote  with  great  bitterness  of  Lady  Montfort." 

"Very  natural  that  he  should.  Who  would 
not  resent  such  interference  ?" 

"  Listen.  I  told  you  that,  at  his  own  com- 
mand, I  sent  to  her  tliat  letter  ;  that  she,  on 
receiving  it,  went  herself  to  Fawley,  to  plead 
our  cause.     I  was  sanguine  of  the  result." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  he  who  is  in  love  has  a  wondrous 
intuition  into  all  the  mysteries  of  love  in  oth- 
ers; and  when  I  read  Darrell's  letter,  I  felt 
sure  that  be  had  once  loved  —  loved  still,  per- 


244 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


haps — the  woman  he  so  vehemently  reproach- 
ed." 

"  Ha  !"  said  the  man  of  the  world,  intimate 
with  Guy  Darrell  from  his  school-days  ;  "  ha ! 
is  it  possible  ?  And  they  say  that  I  know  every 
thing  !  You  were  sanguine  —  I  understand. 
Yes,  if  your  belief  were  true  —  if  there  were 
some  old  attachment  that  could  be  revived — 
some  old  misunderstanding  explained  away — 
stop ;  let  me  think.  True,  true  —  it  was  just 
after  her  marriage  that  he  fled  from  the  world. 
Ah,  my  dear  Lionel !  light,  light !  light  dawns 
on  me !  Not  without  reason  were  you  sanguine. 
Your  hand,  my  dear  boy ;  I  see  hope  for  you  at 
last.  For  if  the  sole  reason  that  prevented 
Darrell  contracting  a  second  marriage  was  the 
unconquered  memory  of  a  woman  like  Lady 
Montfort  (where,  indeed,  her  equal  in  beauty,  in 
dispositions  so  akin  to  his  own  ideal  of  woman- 
ly excellence  ?) — and  if  she  too  has  some  corre- 
spondent sentiments  for  him,  why,  then,  indeed, 
you  might  lose  all  chance  of  being  Darrell's  sole 
heir ;  your  Sophy  might  forfeit  the  hateful  claim 
to  be  the  sole  scion  on  his  ancient  tree.  But  it 
is  precisely  by  those  losses  that  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton  might  gain  the  bride  he  covets ;  and  if  tliis 
girl  prove  to  be  what  these  Loselys  affirm,  that 
very  marriage,  which  is  now  so  repugnant  to 
Darrell,  ought  to  insure  his  blessing.  Were  he 
himself  to  marry  again — had  he  rightful  repre- 
sentatives and  heirs  in  his  own  sons — he  should 
rejoice  in  the  nuptials  that  secured  to  his  daugh- 
ter's child  so  honorable  a  name  and  so  tender  a 
protector.  And  as  for  inheritance,  you  have  not 
been  reared  to  expect  it ;  you  have  never  count- 
ed on  it.  You  would  receive  a  fortune  suffi- 
ciently ample  to  restore  your  ancestral  station ; 
your  career  will  add  honors  to  fortune.  Yes, 
yes ;  that  is  the  sole  way  out  of  all  these  diffi- 
culties. Darrell  must  marry  again ;  Lady  Mont- 
fort must  be  his  wife.  Lionel  shall  be  free  to 
choose  her  whom  Lady  Montfort  approves — be- 
friends— no  matter  what  her  birth ;  and  I — I — 
Alban  Morley — shall  have  an  arm-chair  by  two 
smiling  hearths." 

At  this  moment  there  was  heard  a  violent 
ring  at  the  bell,  a  loud  knock  at  the  street  door ; 


and  presently,  following  close  on  the  servant, 
and  pushing  him  aside  as  he  asked  what  name 
to  announce,  a  woman,  severely  dressed  in  iron 
gray,  with  a  strongly-marked  and  haggard  coun- 
tenance, hurried  into  the  room,  and,  striding 
right  up  to  Alban  Morley  as  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  grasped  his  arm,  and  whispered  into  his 
ear,  '•  Lose  not  a  minute ;  come  with  me  in- 
stantlv — as  vou  value  the  safety,  perhaps  the 
life,  of  Guy  barren  !" 

"  Gixy  Darrell !"  exclaimed  Lionel,  overhear- 
ing her,  despite  the  undertones  of  her  voice. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said,  turning  fiercely ; 
"  are  you  one  of  his  family  ?" 

"  His  kinsman — almost  his  adopted  son — Mr. 
Lionel  Haughton,"  said  the  Colonel.  "But 
pardon  me,  madam — who  are  you  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me  ?  Yet  you  were 
so  often  in  Darrell's  house  that  you  must  Have 
seen  my  face,  as  you  have  learned  from  your 
friend  how  little  cause  I  have  to  care  for  him  or 
his.  Look  again ;  I  am  that  Arabella  Fossett 
who — " 

"Ah!  I  remember  now ;  but — " 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  Darrell  is  in  danger,  and 
this  night.  Take  money ;  to  be  in  time  you 
must  hire  a  special  train.  Take  arms,  though 
to  be  tised  only  in  self-defense.  Take  your 
servant,  if  he  is  brave.  This  young  kinsman — 
let  him  come  too.  There  is  only  one  man  to 
resist ;  but  that  man,"  she  said,  with  a  wild  kind 
of  pride,  "would  have  the  strength  and  courage 
of  ten,  were  his  cause  not  that  which  may  make 
the  strong  man  weak  and  the  bold  man  craven. 
It  is  not  a  matter  for  the  officers  of  justice,  for 
law,  for  scandal :  the  service  is  to  be  done  in 
secret,  by  friends,  by  kinsmen ;  for  the  danger 
that  threatens  Darrell — stoop — stoop,  Colonel 
Morley — close  in  your  ear;"  and  into  his  ear 
she  hissed,  "  for  the  danger  that  threatens  Dar- 
rell in  his  house  this  night  is  from  the  man 
whose  name  his  daughter  bore.  That  is  why  I 
come  to  you.  To  you  I  need  not  say,  '  Spare 
his  life — Jasper  Losely's  life.'  Jasper  Losely's 
death  as  a  midnight  robber  would  be  Darrell's 
intolerable  shame !  Quick,  quick,  quick ! — 
come,  come!" 


WHAT  \\TLL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


245 


BOOK      X. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Brute  force. 

"\Te  left  Jasper  Losely  resting  for  the  night 
at  the  small  town  near  Fawley.  The  next  morn- 
ing he  walked  on  to  the  old  Manor  House.  It 
was  the  same  morning  in  which  Lad}'  Montfort 
had  held  her  painful  interview  with  Darrell; 
and  just  when  Losely  neared  the  gate  that  led 
into  the  small  park,  he  saw  her  re-enter  the 
hired  vehicle  in  waiting  for  her.  As  the  car- 
riage rapidh-  drove  past  the  miscreant,  Lady 
Montfort  looked  forth  from  the  window  to 
snatch  a  last  look  at  the  scenes  still  so  dear  to 
her,  through  eyes  blinded  by  despairing  tears. 
Jasper  thus  caught  sight  of  her  countenance, 
and  recognized  her,  though  she  did  not  even 
notice  him.  Surprised  at  the  sight,  he  halted 
by  the  palings.  "\Yhat  could  have  brought  Lady 
Montfort  there  ?  Could  the  intimacy  his  fraud 
had  broken  off  so  many  years  ago  be  renewed  ? 
If  so,  why  the  extreme  sadness  so  evident  on 
the  face  of  which  he  had  caught  but  a  hurried, 
rapid  glance  ?  Be  that  as  it  might,  it  was  no 
longer  of  the  interest  to  him  it  had  once  been  ; 
and  after  pondering  on  the  circumstance  a  min- 
ute or  two,  he  advanced  to  the  gate.  But  while 
his  hand  was  on  tlie  latch  he  again  paused ; 
how  should  he  obtain  admission  to  Uarrell? 
how  announce  himself?  If  in  his  own  name, 
would  not  exclusion  be  certain  ?  If  as  a  stran- 
ger on  business,  would  Darrell  be  sure  to  re- 
ceive him  ?  As  he  was  thus  cogitating,  his  ear, 
which,  with  all  his  other  organs  of  sense,  was 
constitutionally  fine  as  a  savage's,  caught  sound 
of  a  faint  rustle  among  the  boughs  of  a  thick 
copse  which  covered  a  part  of  the  little  park, 
terminating  at  its  pales.  The  rustle  came  near- 
er and  nearer;  the  branches  were  rudely  dis- 
placed ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  Guy  Dar- 
rell himself  came  out  from  the  copse,  close  by 
the  gate,  and,  opening  it  quickly,  stood  face  to 
face  with  his  abhorrent  son-in-law.  Jasper  was 
startled,  but  the  opportunity  was  not  to  be  lost. 
"Mr.  Darrell,"  he  said,  "I  come  here  again  to 
see  you  ;  vouchsafe  me  this  time  a  calmer  hear- 
ing." So  changed  was  Losely,  so  absorbed  in 
his  own  emotions  Darrell,  that  the  words  did 
not  at  once  waken  up  remembrance.  '"An- 
other time,"  said  Darrell,  hastily  moving  on  into 
the  road;   "  I  am  not  at  leisure  now." 

"Pardon  me,  noic"  said  Losely,  unconscious- 
ly bringing  himself  back  to  the  tones  and  bear- 
ing of  his  earlier  and  more  civilized  years. 
"You  do  not  remember  me.  Sir;  no  wonder. 
But  my  name  is  Jasper  Losely." 

Darrell  halted ;  then,  still  "as  if  spell-bound,  i 
looked  fixedly  at  the  broad-shouldered,  burlv 
frame  before  him,  cased  in  its  coarse  pea-jack- 
et, and  in  that  rude  form,  and  that  defeatured, 
bloated  face,  detected,  though  with  strong  effort, 
the  wrecks  of  the  masculine  beauty  which  had 
ensnared  his  deceitful  daughter.  Jasper  could 
.not  have  selected  a  more  uupropitious  moment  i 


for  his  cause.  Dan-ell  was  still  too  much  under 
the  influence  of  recent  excitement  and  immense 
son-ow  for  that  supremacy  of  prudence  over  pas- 
sion which  could  alone  have  made  him  a  w  illing 
listener  to  overtures  from  Jasper  Losely.  And 
about  the  man  whose  connection  with  himself 
was  a  thought  of  such  bitter  shame,  there  was 
now  so  unmistakably  the  air  of  settled  degrada- 
tion, that  all  Darrell's  instincts  of  gentleman 
were  revolted — just  at  the  vert-  time,  too,  when 
his  pride  had  been  most  chafed  and  assailed  by 
the  obtrusion  of  all  that  rendered  most  gaUing 
to  him  the  very  name  of  Jasper  Losely.  AVhat ! 
was  it  that  man's  asserted  child  whom  Lionel 
Haughton  desired  as  a  wife?  was  the  alliance 
witli  that  man  to  be  thus  renewed  and  strength- 
ened? that  man  have  another  claim  to  him  and 
his  in  right  of  parentage  to  the  bride  of  his  near- 
est kinsman  ?  What !  was  it  that  man's  child 
whom  he  was  asked  to  recognize  as  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood?  the  last  representative  of  his 
line?  That  man! — that!  A  flash  shot  from 
his  bright  eye,  deepening  its  gray  into  dark; 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  Darrell  said,  through 
his  compressed  lips, 

"  You  have  heard,  Sir,  I  believe,  through  Col- 
onel Morley,  that  only  on  condition  of  your  per- 
manent settlement  in  one  of  our  distant'colonies, 
or  America,  if  you  prefer  it,  would  I  consent  to 
assist  you.  I  am  of  the  same  mind  still.  I  can 
not  parley  with  you  myself.  Colonel  Morley  is 
abroad,  I  believe.  I  refer  you  to  my  solicitor ; 
you  have  seen  him  years  ago ;  you  know  his  ad- 
dress.    Xo  more.  Sir." 

"This  will  not  do,  Mr.  DaiTell,"said  Losely, 
doggedly;  and,  planting  himself  right  before 
Darrell's  way,  "  I  have  come  here  on  purpose 
to  have  all  ditferences  out  with  you,  face  to  face 
— and  I  will — " 

"You  will!"  said  Darrell,  pale  with  haughty 
anger,  and,  with  the  impulse  of  his  passion,  his 
hand  clenched.  In  the  bravery  of  his  nature, 
and  the  warmth  of  a  temper  constitutionally 
quick,  he  thought  nothing  of  the  strength  and 
bulk  of  the  insolent  intruder — nothing  of  the 
peril  of  odds  so  unequal  in  a  personal  encounter. 
But  the  dignity  which  pervaded  all  his  habits, 
and  often  supplied  to  him  the  place  of  discre- 
tion, came,  happily  for  himself,  to  his  aid  now. 
He  strike  a  man  whom  he  so  despised  I  he  raise 
that  man  to  his  own  level  by  the  honor  of  a 
blow  from  his  hand !  Impossible !  "  You  will !" 
he  said.  "  Well,  be  it  so.  Are  you  come  again 
to  tell  me  that  a  child  of  my  daughter  lives,  and 
that  you  won  my  daughter's  fortune  by  a  delib- 
erate lie?" 

"  I  am  not  come  to  speak  of  that  girl,  but  of 
myself.  I  say  that  I  have  a  claim  on  you,  Mr. 
Darrell;  I  say  that,  turn  and  twist  the  truth  as 
you  will,  you  are  still  my  father-in-law,  and  that 
it  is  intolerable  that  I  s'.iould  be  wanting  bread, 
or  driven  into  actual  robbery,  while  my  wife's 
father  is  a  man  of  countless  wealth,  and  has  no 
heir  except — but  I  will  not  now  urge  that  child's 


216 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


cause ;  I  am  content  to  abandon  it,  if  so  obnox- 
ious to  you.  Do  you  wish  me  to  cut  a  throat, 
and  to  be  hanged,  and  all  the  world  to  hear  the 
last  dying  speech  and  confession  of  Guy  Dar- 
rell's  son-in-law  ?     Answer  me,  Sir  I" 

"  I  answer  you  briefly  and  plainly.  It  is  sim- 
ply because  I  would  not  have  that  last  disgrace 
on  Guy  Darrell's  name  that  I  offer  you  a  sub- 
sistence in  lands  where  you  will  be  less  exposed 
to  those  temptations  which  induced  you  to  in- 
vest the  sums  that,  by  your  own  tale,  had  been 
obtained  from  me  on  false  pretenses,  in  the  sink 
of  a  Paris  gambling-house.  A  subsistence  that, 
if  it  does  not  pamper  vice,  at  least  places  you 
beyond  the  necessity  of  crime,  is  at  your  option. 
Choose  it  or  reject  it  as  you  \vill." 

'•Look  yoa,  Mr.  DaiTcll,"  said  Jasper,  whose 
temper  was  fast  giving  way  beneath  the  cold 
and  galling  scorn  «-ith  which  he  was  thus  cast 
aside,  '■  I  am  in  a  state  so  desperate,  that,  rath- 
er than  starve,  I  may  take  what  yon  so  con- 
temptuously fling  to — your  daughter's  husband ; 
but — " 

"  Knave  1"  cried  Dan-ell,  interrupting  him, 
"do  you  again  and  again  urge  it  as  a  claim 
upon  me,  that  you  decoyed  from  her  home,  un- 
der a  false  name,  my  only  child;  that  she  died 
in  a  foreign  land  —  broken-hearted,  if  I  have 
rightly  heard ;  is  that  a  claim  upon  your  duped 
victim's  father  ?" 

'•  It  seems  so,  since  your  pride  is  compelled  to 
own  that  the  world  would  deem  it  one,  if  the 
jail-chaplain  took  down  the  last  words  of  your 
son-in-law.  But,  hasta,  basta  I  hear  me  out,  and 
spare  hard  names ;  for  the  blood  is  mounting 
into  my  brain,  and  I  may  become  dangerous. 
Had  any  other  man  eyed,  and  scoff'ed,  and  rail- 
ed at  me  as  you  have  done,  he  would  be  lying 
dead  and  dumb  as  this  stone  at  my  foot ;  but 
you — are  my  father-in-law.  Xow,  I  care  not  to 
bargain  with  you  what  be  the  precise  amount  of 
my  stipend  if  I  obey  your  wish,  and  settle  mis- 
erably in  one  of  those  raw,  comfortless  corners 
into  which  they  who  burden  this  Old  World  are 
thrust  out  of  sight.  I  would  rather  live  my  time 
out  in  this  country — live  it  out  in  peace,  and  for 
half  what  you  may  agree  to  give  in  transporring 
me.  If  you  are  to  do  any  thing  for  me,  you 
had  better  do  it  so  as  to  make  me  contented  on 
easy  terms  to  your  own  pockets,  rather  than  to 
leave  me  dissatisfied,  and  willing  to  annoy  you, 
which  I  could  do  somehow  or  other,  even  on  the 
far  side  of  ths  Herring  Pond.  I  might  keep  to 
the  letter  of  a  liargain,  live  in  Phillip's  Town  or 
Adelaide,  and  take  your  money,  and  yet  molest 
and  trouble  you  by  deputy.  That  girl,  for  in- 
stance— your  grandchild  ;  well,  well,  disown  her 
if  you  please ;  but  if  I  find  out  where  she  is, 
which  I  own  I  have  not  done  yet,  I  might  con- 
trive to  render  her  the  plague  of  your  life,  even 
though  I  ;j-ere  in  Australia." 

'•Ay,"  said  Darrell,  murmuring — "ay,  ay; 
but" — (suddenly  gathering  himself  up) — "No! 
Man,  if  she  v.ere  my  grandchild,  your  own  child, 
could  you  talk  of  her  thus  ? — make  her  the  ob- 
ject of  so  base  a  traffic,  and  such  miserable 
threats?  Wicked  though  you  be,  this  were 
against  nature  I — even  in  nature's  wickedness — 
even  in  the  son  of  a  felon,  and  in  the  sharper 
of  a  hell.  Pooh  1  I  despise  your  malice.  I  will 
listen  to  vou  uo  longer.     Out  of  mv  path !" 

"No!'"' 


I      "No?" 

I      "  No,  Guy  Darrell,  I  have  not  yet  done ;  you 
j  shall  hear  my  terms,  and  accept  them — a  mod- 
I  erate  sum  down  ;  say  a  few  hundreds,  and  two 
hundred  a  year  to  spend  in  London  as  I  will — 
I  but  out  of  your  beat,  out  of  your  sight  and  hear- 
I  ing.     Grant  this,  and  I  will  never  cross  you 
j  again — never  attempt  to  find,  and,  if  I  find  by 
.  chance,  never  claim,  as  my  child  by  your  daugh- 
:  ter,  that  wandering  gii^l.     I  will  never  shame 
I  you  by  naming  our  connection.     I  wiU  not  of- 
fend the  law,  nor  die  by  the  hangman ;  yet  I 
shall  not  live  long,  for  I  suff"er  much,  and  I  drink 
hard." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  gloomily,  not  al- 
together ^\'ithout  a  strange  dreary  pathos.  And 
amidst  all  his  just  scorn  and  anger,  the  large 
human  heart  of  Guy  Darrell  was  for  the  mo- 
ment touched.  He  was  silent — his  mind  hesi- 
tated ;  would  it  not  be  well — would  it  not  be 
just  as  safe  to  his  own  peace,  and  to  that  of  the 
poor  child,  whom,  no  matter  what  her  parent- 
age, DaiTell  could  not  but  desire  to  free  from 
the  claim  set  up  by  so  bold  a  ruffian,  to  gratify 
Losely's  wish,  and  let  him  remain  in  England, 
upon  an  allowance  that  would  suffice  for  his  sub- 
sistence? Unluckily  for  Jasper,  it  was  while 
this  doubt  passed  through  DaiTcUs  relenting 
mind  that  the  miscreant,  who  was  shrewd 
enough  to  see  that  he  had  gained  ground  but 
too  coarse  of  apprehension  to  ascribe  his  advant- 
age to  its  right  cause,  thought  to  strengthen  his 
case  by  additional  arguments.  "  Yon  see,  Sir,  "re- 
sumed Jasper,  in  almost  familiar  accents,  "that 
there  is  no  dog  so  toothless  but  what  he  can  bite, 
and  no  dog  so  savage  but  what,  if  yon  give  him 
plenty  to  eat,  he  will  serve  you." 

Darrell  looked  up,  and  his  brow  slowly  dark- 
ened. 

Jasper  continued — "I  have  hinted  how  I 
might  plague  you ;  perhaps,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  might  do  you  a  good  turn  with  that  handsome 
lady  who  drove  from  your  park  gate  as  I  came 
up.  Ah !  you  were  once  to  have  been  married 
to  her.  I  read  in  the  newspapers  that  she  has 
become  a  widow :  you  may  marry  her  yet. 
There  was  a  stoi-y  against  you  once ;  her  mo- 
ther made  use  of  it,  and  broke  off"  an  old  en- 
gagement.    I  can  set  that  story  right." 

'•You  can,"  said  Darrell,  with  that  exceeding 
calmness  which  comes  from  exceeding  ^sTath ; 
"and  perhaps.  Sir,  that  story,  whatever  it  might 
be,  you  invented.  Xo  dog  so  toothless  as  not 
to  bite — eh.  Sir  ?" 

"Well,"  returned  Jasper,  mistaking  Darrell's 
composure,  "at  that  time  certainly  it  seemed 
my  interest  that  you  should  not  marry  again  ; — 
but  basta  !  basta  !  enough  of  by-gones.  If  I  bit 
once,  I  will  serve  now.  Come,  Sir,  you  are  a 
man  of  the  world,  let  us  close  the  bargain." 

All  Darrell's  soul  was  now  up  in  arms.  What, 
then !  this  infamous  wretch  was  the  author  of 
the  tale  by  which  the  woman  he  had  loved,  as 
woman  never  was  loved  before,  had  excused  her 
breach  of  faith,  and  been  lost  to  hini  for  ever  ? 
And  he  learned  this,  while  yet  fresh  from  her 
presence — fresh  from  the  agonizing  conviction 
that  his  heart  loved  still,  but  could  not  jiardon. 
With  a  spring  so  sudden  that  it  took  Losely  ut- 
terly by  surprise,  he  leaped  on  the  bravo,  swung 
.1-idc  that  huge  bulk  which  Jasper  had  boasted 
fear  draymen  could  not  stir  against  its  will, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


247 


cleared  his  way  ;  and  turning  back  before  Lose- 
ly  had  recovered  his  amaze,  cried  out,  ''Exe- 
crable villain  I  I  revoke  every  offer  to  aid  a  life 
that  has  e>asted  but  to  darken  and  desolate  those 
it  was  permitted  to  approach.  Starve  or  rob ! 
perish  miserably  I  And  if  I  pour  not  on  your 
head  my  parting  curse,  it  is  only  because  I  know 
that  man  has  no  right  to  curse  ;  and  casting  you 
back  on  your  own  evil  self  is  the  sole  revenge 
which  my  belief  in  Heaven  permits  me." 

Thus  saying,  Darrell  strode  on — swiftly,  but 
not  as  one  who  flies.  Jasper  made  three  long 
bounds,  and  was  almost  at  his  side,  when  he  was 
startled  by  the  explosion  of  a  gun.  A  pheasant 
fell  dead  on  the  road,  and  Darrell's  gamekeeper, 
gnn  in  hand,  came  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge 
opposite  the  park  pales,  and  seeing  his  master 
close  before  him,  approached  to  apologize  for 
the  suddenness  of  the  shot. 

Whatever  Losely's  intention  in  hastening  after 
Darrell,  he  had  no  option  now  but  to  relinquish 
it,  and  drop  back.  The  village  itself  was  not 
many  hundred  yards  distant ;  and,  after  all, 
what  good  in  violence,  except  the  gratified  rage 
of  the  moment  ?  Violence  would  not  give  to 
Jasper  Losely  the  income  that  had  just  been 
within  his  giasp,  and  had  so  unexpectedly  elud- 
ed it.  He  remained,  therefore,  in  the  lane, 
standing  still,  and  seeing  Darrell  turn  quietly 
into  his  park  through  another  gate  close  to  the 
Manor  House.  The  gamekeeper,  meanwhile, 
picked  up  his  bird,  reloaded  his  gun,  and  eyed 
Jasper  suspiciously  askant.  The  baffled  gladi- 
ator at  length  turned,  and  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  town  he  had  left.  It  was  late  in  the  aft- 
ernoon when  he  once  more  gained  his  corner  in 
the  coftee-room  of  his  commercial  inn ;  and,  to 
his  annoyance,  the  room  was  crowded — it  was 
market-day.  Farmers,  their  business  over,  came 
in  and  out  in  quick  succession ;  those  who  did 
not  dine  at  the  ordinaries,  taking  their  hasty 
snack,  or  stirrup-cup,  while  their  horses  were 
being  saddled ;  others  to  look  at  the  newspaper, 
or  exchange  a  word  on  the  state  of  markets  and 
the  nation.  Jasper,  wearied  and  sullen,  had  to 
wait  for  the  refreshments  he  ordered,  and  mean- 
while fell  into  a  sort  of  half  doze,  as  was  not  now 
nnusual  in  him  in  the  intervals  between  food  and 
mischief.  From  this  creeping  torpor  he  was  sud- 
denly roused  by  the  sound  of  Darrell's  name. 
Three  formers,  standing  close  beside  him,  their 
backs  to  the  fire,  were  tenants  to  Darrell — two 
of  them  on  the  lands  that  Darrell  had  purchased 
in  the  years  of  his  territorial  ambition  ;  the  third 
resided  in  the  hamlet  of  Fawley,  and  rented  the 
larger  portion  of  the  comparatively  barren  acres 
to  which  the  old  patrimonial  estate  was  circum- 
scribed. These  farmers  were  talking  of  their 
Squire's  return  to  the  county — of  his  sequestered 
mode  of  life — of  his  peculiar  habits — of  the  great 
nnfinished  house  which  was  left  to  rot.  The 
Fawley  tenant  then  said  that  it  might  not  be 
left  to  rot  after  all,  and  that  the  village  work- 
men had  been  lately  employed,  and  still  were, 
in  getting  some  of  the  rooms  into  rough  order; 
and  then  he  spoke  of  the  long  gallery  in  which 
the  Squire  had  been  arranging  his  fine  pictures, 
and  how  he  had  run  up  a  passage  between  that 
gallery  and  his  own  room,  and  how  he  would 
spend  hours  at  day,  and  night  too,  in  that  aw- 
ful long  room,  as  lone  as  a  church-yard ;  and 
that  Mr.  Mills  hud  said  that  his  master  now 


lived  almost  entirely  either  in  that  gallery  or  in 
the  room  in  the  roof  of  the  old  house — quite  cut 
off,  as  you  might  say,  except  from  the  eyes  of 
those  dead  pictures,  or  the  rats,  which  had 
gi-own  so  excited  at  having  their  quarters  in 
the  new  building  invaded,  that  if  you  peeped  in 
at  the  windows  in  moonlit  nights  you  might  see 
them  in  dozens,  sitting  on  their  haunches  as  if 
holding  council,  or  peering  at  the  curious  old 
things  which  lay  beside  the  crates  out  of  which 
they  had  been  taken.  Then  the  rustic  gossips 
went  on  to  talk  of  the  rent-day,  which  was  at 
hand — of  the  audit  feast,  which,  according  to 
immemorial  custom,  was  given  at  the  old  :Ma"nor 
House  on  thatsame  rent-day — supposed  that  Mr. 
Fairthorn  would  preside— that  the  Squire  him- 
self would  not  appear — made  some  incidental 
observations  on  their  respective  rents  and  wheat 
crops — remarked  that  they  should  have  a  good 
moonlight  for  their  ride  back  from  the  audit 
j  feast — cautioned  each  other,  laughing,  not  to 
!  drink  too  much  of  Jlr.  Fairthorn's  punch — and 
]  finally  went  their  way,  leaving  on  the  mind  of 
'  Jasper  Losely ^who,  leaning  his  scheming  head 
1  on  his  powerful  hand,  had  ajipeared  in  dull 
j  sleep  all  the  while — these  two  facts :  1st,  That 
[  on  the  third  day  from  that  which  was  then  de- 
clining, sums  amounting  to  thousands  would 
find  their  way  into  Fawley  Manor  House;  and, 
2dly,  That  a  communication  existed  between 
the  unfinished,  uninhabited  building  and  Dar- 
rell's own  solitary  chamber.  As  soon  as  he  had 
fortified  himself  by  food  and  drink,  Jasper  rose, 
paid  for  his  refreshments,  and  walked  forth. 
Xoiseless  and  rapid,  skirting  the  hedge-rows  by 
the  lane  that  led  to  Fawley,  and  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable under  their  shadow,  the  human 
wild-beast  strided  on  in  scent  of  its  quarry.  It 
was  night  when  Jasper  once  more  reached  the 
moss-grown  pales  round  the  demesnes  of  the 
old  Manor  House.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 
standing  under  the  black  shadow  of  the  but- 
tresses to  the  unfinished  pile.  His  object  was 
not  then  to  assault,  but  to  reconnoitre.  He 
prowled  round  the  irregular  walls,  guided  in  his 
sun-ey,  now  and  then,  faintly  by  the  stars — more 
constantly  and  clearly  by  the  lights  from  the  con- 
tiguous Manor  House — more  especially  the  light 
from  that  high  chamber  in  the  gable,  close  by 
whrich  ran  the  thin  frame-work  of  wood  whicti 
linked  the  two  buildings  of  stone,  just  as  any 
frail  scheme  links  together  the  Past,  which  man 
has  not  enjoyed,  with  the  Future  he  will  not 
complete.  Jasper  came  to  a  large  bay  unglazed 
window,  its  sill  but  a  few  feet  from  the  ground, 
from  which  the  boards,  nailed  across  the  mull- 
ions,  had  been  removed  by  the  workmen  whom 
Darrell  had  employed  on  the  interior,  and  were 
replaced  but  by  a  loose  tarpaulin.  Pulling  aside 
this  slight  obstacle,  Jasper  had  no  difficulty  in  en- 
tering through  the  wide  mullions  into  the  dreary 
edifice.  Finding  himself  in  profound  darkness, 
he  had  recourse  to  a  lucifer-box  which  he  had 
about  him,  and  the  waste  of  a  dozen  matches 
sufficed  him  to  examine  the  ground.  He  was 
in  a  space  intended  by  the  architect  for  the  prin- 
cipal stair-case ;  a  tall  ladder,  used  by  the  re- 
cent workmen,  was  still  left  standing  against 
the  wall,  the  top  of  it  renting  on  a  landing-place 
opposite  a  door-way,  that,  from  the  richness  of 
its  half-finished  architrave,  obviously  led  to  what 
had  been  designed  for  the  state  apartments; 


248 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


between  the  pediments  was  a  slight  temporary 
door  of  rough  deal  planks.  Satisfied  with  his 
reconnoitre,  Losely  quitted  the  skeleton  pile 
and  retraced  his  steps  to  the  inn  he  had  left. 
His  musings  by  the  way  suggested  to  liim  the 
expediency,  nay,  the  necessity,  of  an  accom- 
plice. Implements  might  be  needed — disguises 
would  be  required — swift  horses  for  flight  to  be 
hired — and,  should  the  robbery  succeed,  the 
bulk  of  the  spoil  would  be  no  doubt  in  bank- 
notes, which  it  would  need  some  other  hand 
than  his  own  to  dispose  of,  either  at  the  bank 
next  morning  at  the  earliest  hour,  or  by  trans- 
mission abroad.  For  help  in  all  this  Jasper 
knew  no  one  to  compare  to  Cutts  ;  nor  did  he 
suspect  his  old  ally  of  any  share  in  the  conspir- 
acy against  him,  of  which  he  had  been  M-arned 
by  Mrs.  Crane,  Resolving,  therefore,  to  admit 
that  long-tried  friend  into  his  confidence  and  a 
share  of  the  spoils,  he  quickened  his  pace,  ar- 
rived at  the  railway-station  in  time  for  a  late 
train  to  London,  and,  disdainful  of  the  dangers 
by  which  he  was  threatened  in  return  to  any  of 
the  haunts  of  his  late  associates,  gained  the  dark 
court  wherein  he  had  effected  a  lodgment  on  the 
night  of  his  return  to  London,  and  roused  Cutts 
from  his  slumbers  with  tales  of  an  enterprise  so 
promising,  that  the  small  man  began  to  recover 
his  ancient  admiration  for  the  genius  to  which 
he  had  bowed  at  Paris,  but  which  had  fallen 
into  his  contempt  in  London. 

Mr.  Cutts  held  a  very  peculiar  position  in  that 
section  of  the  great  world  to  which  he  belonged. 
He  possessed  the  advantage  of  an  education  su- 
perior to  that  of  the  generality  of  his  compan- 
ions, having  been  originally  a  clerk  to  an  Old 
Bailey  attorney,  and  having  since  that  early 
day  accomplished  his  natural  shrewdness  by  a 
variety  of  speculative  enterprises  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  In  these  adventures  he  had  not 
only  contrived  to  make  money,  but,  what  is  very 
rare  with  the  foes  of  law,  to  save  it.  Being  a 
bachelor,  he  was  at  small  expenses  ;  but  besides 
his  bacheloi-'s  lodging  in  the  dark  court,  he  had 
an  establishment  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  near 
the  Thames,  which  was  intrusted  to  the  care  of 
a  maiden  sister  as  covetous  and  as  crafty  as 
himself.  At  this  establishment,  ostensibly  a 
pawnbroker's,  were  received  the  goods  which 
Cutts  knew  at  his  residence  in  the  court  were 
to  be  sold  a  bargain,  having  been  obtained  for 
nothing.  It  was  chiefly  by  this  business  that 
the  man  had  enriched  himself  But  his  net  was 
one  that  took  in  fishes  of  all  kinds.  He  was  a 
general  adviser  to  the  invaders  of  law.  If  he 
shared  in  the  schemes  he  advised,  they  were  so 
sure  to  be  successful  that  he  enjoyed  the  liigh- 
est  reputation  for  luck.  It  was  "biit  seldom  that 
he  did  actively  share  in  those  schemes — lucky 
in  what  he  shunned  as  in  what  he  performed. 
He  had  made  no  untruthful  boast  to  Mrs.  Crane 
of  the  skill  with  which  he  had  kept  himself  out 
of  the  fangs  of  justice.  With  a  certain  portion 
of  the  })olice  he  was  indeed  rather  a  favorite  ; 
for  was  any  thing  mysteriotisly  "  lost,"  for  which 
the  owner  would  give  a  reward  equal  to  its  value 
in  legal  markets,  Cutts  was  the  man  who  would 
get  it  back.  Of  violence  he  had  a  wiiolesome 
dislike  ;  not  that  he  did  not  admire  force  in  oth- 
ers— not  that  he  was  jdiysically  a  coward — iiut 
tlial  caution  was  his  ])redominant  characteristic. 
He  employed  force  when  reipiired — set  a  just 


.value  on  it — would  plan  a  burglary,  and  dispose 
of  the  spoils ;  but  it  was  only  where  the  jjrize 
was  great  and  the  danger  small  that  he  lent 
his  hand  to  the  work  that  his  brain  approved. 
When  Losely  i)roj)osed  to  him  the  robbery  of  a 
lone  country  house,  in  which  Jasper,  making 
light  of  all  perils,  brought  prominently  forward 
the  images  of  some  thousands  of  jiounds  in  gold 
and  notes,  guarded  by  an  elderly  gentleman, 
and  to  be  approached  with  ease  through  an  un- 
inhabited building — Cutts  thought  it  well  worth 
personal  investigation.  Nor  did  he  consider 
himself  bound,  by  his  general  engagement  to 
IMrs.  Crane,  to  lose  the  chance  of  a  sum  so  im- 
measurably greater  than  he  could  expect  to  ob- 
tain from  her  by  revealing  the  jjlflt  and  taking 
measures  to  frustrate  it.  Cutts  was  a  most  faith- 
ful and  intelligent  agent  when  he  was  properly 
paid,  and  had  jiroved  himself  so  to  Mrs.  Crane 
on  various  occasions.  But  then,  to  be  paid 
jtropcrhj  meant  a  gain  greater  in  serving  than 
he  could  get  in  not  serving.  Hitherto  it  had 
been  exti-emely  lucrative  to  obey  ilrs.  Crane  in 
saving  Jasper  from  crime  and  danger.  In  this 
instance  the  lucre  seemed  all  the  other  way. 
Accordingly,  the  next  morning,  having  filled  a 
saddle-bag  with  sundry  necessaries,  such  as  files, 
picklocks,  masks — to  Avhich  he  added  a  choice 
selection  of  political  tracts  and  newspapers — he 
and  Jasjier  set  out  on  two  hired  but  strong  and 
fleet  hackneys  to  the  neighborhood  of  Fawley. 
They  put  up  at  a  town  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Manor  House  from  that  by  which  Jasper  had 
approached  it,  and  at  about  the  same  distance. 
After  baiting  their  steeds,  they  proceeded  to 
Fawley  by  the  silent  guid;>  of  a  finger-post,  gain- 
ed the  vicinity  of  the  park,  and  Cutts,  dismount- 
ing, flitted  across  the  turf,  and  plunged  himself 
into  the  hollows  of  the  unfinished  mansion, 
while  Jasper  took  charge  of  the  horses  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  wooded  lane.  Cutts,  pleased  by  the 
survey  of  the  forlorn  interior,  ventured,  in  the 
stillness  that  reigned  around,  to  mount  the  lad- 
der, to  ap]dy  a  picklock  to  the  door  above,  and 
opening  this  with  ease,  crept  into  the  long  gal- 
lery, its  walls  covered  with  pictures.  Through 
the  crevices  in  another  door  at  the  extreme  end 
gleamed  a  faint  light.  Cutts  applied  his  eye  to 
the  chinks  and  keyhole,  and  saw  that  the  light 
came  from  a  room  on  the  other  side  the  narrow 
passage  which  connected  the  new  house  with 
the  old.  The  door  of  that  room  was  open,  can- 
dles were  on  the  table,  and  beside  the  table 
Cutts  could  distinguish  the  outline  of  a  man's 
form  seated — doubtless  the  owner ;  but  the  form 
did  not  seem  "elderly."  If  inferior  to  Jasper's 
in  physical  power,  it  still  was  that  of  vigorous 
and  unbroken  manhood.  Cutts  did  not  like  the 
appearance  of  that  form,  and  he  retreated  to 
outer  air  with  some  misgivings.  However,  on 
rejoining  Losely,  he  said,  "As  yet  things  look 
promising — place  still  as  death — only  one  door 
locked,  and  that  the  common  country  lock,  which 
a  school-boy  might  ])ick  with  his  knife." 

"Or  a  crooked  nail,"  said  Jas])er. 

"Ay,  no  better  picklock  in  good  hands.  But 
there  are  other  things  besides  locks  to  think  of." 

Cutts  then  hurried  on  to  suggest  that  it  was 
just  the  hour  when  some  of  the  workmen  em- 
ployed on  the  jiremises  might  be  found  in  the 
Fawley  public  house ;  that  he  should  ride  on, 
dismount  there,  and  take  his  chance  of  picking 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


249 


up  details  of  useful  information  as  to  localities 
and  household.  He  should  represent  himself 
as  a  commercial  traveler  on  his  road  to  the  town 
they  had  quitted ;  he  should  take  out  his  cheap 
newspapers  and  tracts ;  he  should  talk  politics 
— all  workmen  love  politics,  especially  the  poli- 
tics of  cheap  newspapers  and  tracts.  He  would 
rejoin  Losely  in  an  hour  or  so. 

The  bravo  waited  —  his  horse  grazed — the 
moon  came  forth,  stealing  through  the  trees, 
bringing  into  fantastic  light  the  melancholy  old 
dwelling-house — the  yet  more  melancholy  new 
pile.  Jasper  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  without 
certain  superstitious  fancies,  and  they  had  grown 
on  him  more  of  late  as  his  brain  had  become 
chronicalh-  heated  and  his  nerves  i-elaxed  by 
pain.  He  began  to  feel  the  awe  of  the  silence 
and  the  moonlight ;  and  some  vague  remem- 
brances of  eai'lier  guiltless  days — of  a  father's 
genial  love — of  joyous  sensations  in  the  price- 
less possession  of  youth  and  vigor — of  the  ad- 
mii'ing  smiles  and  cordial  hands  which  his  beau- 
ty, his  daring,  and  high  spirits  had  attracted  to- 
ward him — of  the  all  that  he  had  been,  mixed 
with  the  consciousness  of  what  he  was,  and  an 
uneasy  conjecture  of  the  probable  depth  of  the 
final  fall — came  dimly  over  his  thoughts,  and 
seemed  like  the  whispers  of  remorse.  But  it  is 
rarely  that  man  continues  to  lay  blame  on  him- 
self; and  Jasper  hastened  to  do  as  many  a  bet- 
ter person  does  without  a  blush  for  his  folly — 
viz.,  shift  upon  the  innocent  shoulders  of  feUow- 
men,  or  on  the  hazy  outlines  of  that  clouded 
form  which  ancient  schools  and  modern  plagia- 
rists call  sometimes  "Circumstance,"  sometimes 
"Chance, "sometimes  "Fate,"  all  the  guilt  due 
to  his  own  willful  abuse  of  irrevocable  hours. 

With  this  consolatoiy  creed  came,  of  necessi- 
ty, the  devil's  grand  luxury,  Revenge.  Say  to 
yourself,  "  For  what  I  suffer  I  condemn  anoth- 
er man,  or  I  accuse  the  Arch-Invisible,  be  it  a 
Destiny,  be  it  a  Maker!"  and  the  logical  sequel 
is  to  add  evil  to  evil,  folly  to  folly — to  retort  on 
the  man  who  so  wrongs,  or  on  the  Arch-Invisi- 
ble who  so  afflicts  you.  Of  all  our  passions  is 
not  Revenge  the  one  into  which  enters  with  the 
most  zest  a  devil  ?  For  what  is  a  devil  ? — A  be- 
ing whose  sole  work  on  earth  is  some  revenge 
on  God  I 

Jasper  Losely  was  not  by  temperament  vindic- 
tive ;  he  was  irascible,  as  the  vain  are — combative, 
aggressive,  turbulent,  by  the  impulse  of  animal 
spirits ;  but  the  premeditation  of  vengeance  was 
foreign  to  a  levity  and  egotism  which  abjured 
the  self-sacrifice  that  is  equally  necessary'  to  ha- 
tred as  to  love.  But  Guy  Darrell  had'  forced 
into  his  moral  system  a  passion  not  native  to  it. 
Jasper  had  expected  so  much  from  his  marriage 
with  the  great  man's  daughter — counted  so 
thoroughly  on  her  power  to  obtain  pardon  and 
confer  wealth — and  his  disappointment  had  been 
so  keen — been  accompanied  with  such  mortifi- 
cation— that  he  regarded  the  man  whom  he  had 
most  injured  as  the  man  who  had  most  injured 
him.  But  not  till  now  did  his  angry  feelings 
assume  the  shape  of  a  definite  vengeance.  So 
long  as  there  was  a  chance  that  he  could  ex- 
tort from  Darrell  the  money  that  was  the  essen- 
tial necessary  to  his  life,  he  checked  his  thoughts 
whenever  they  suggested  a  profitless  gratifica- 
tion of  rage.  But  now  that  Darrell  had  so 
scornfully  and  so  inexorably  spurned  all  conces- 


sion— now  that  nothing  was  to  be  wrung  from  him 
except  by  force — force  and  vengeance  came  to- 
gether in  his  projects.     And  yet,  even  in  the 
daring  outrage  he  was  meditating,  murder  itself 
did  not  stand  out  as  a  thought  accepted — no ; 
what  pleased  his  wild  and  turbid   imagination 
was  the  idea  of  humiliating  by  terror  the  man 
j  who  had  humbled  him  by  disdain.     To  pene- 
trate into  the  home  of  this  haughty  scorner — 
to  confront  him  in  his  own  chamber  at  the  dead 
of  night,  man  to  man,  force  to  force ;  to  say  to 
him,  "None  now  can  deliver  you  from  me — I 
come  no  more  as  a  suppliant — I  command  you 
to  accept  my  terms;"  to  gloat  over  the  fears 
which,  the  strong  man  felt  assured,  would  bow 
the  rich  man  to  beg  for  mercy  at  his  feet; — 
this  was  the  picture  which  Jasper  Losely  con- 
[  jured  up ;  and  even  the  spoil  to  Le  won  by  vio- 
!  lence  smiled  on  him  less  than  the  grand  po- 
I  sition  which  the  violence  itself  would  bestow. 
I  Are  not  nine  murders  out  of  ten  fashioned  thus 
I  from  conception  into  deed?     "Oh  that  my  en- 
emy were  but  before  me  face  to  face — none  to 
part  us  I"  says  the  vindictive  dreamer.     W^ell, 
i  and  what  then?     T/iere  his  imagination  halts 
I  — there  he  drops  the  sable  curtain ;  he  goes  not 
j  on  to  say,  "  Why,  then  another  murder  will  be 
!  added  to  the  long  catalogue  from  Cain."     He 
I  palters  with  his  deadly  wish,  and  mutters,  per- 
i  haps,  at  most,  "Why,  then— come  what  may." 
j      Losely  continued  to  gaze  on  the  pale  walls 
I  gleaming   through   the    wintry  boughs,  as    the 
i  moon  rose  high  and  higher.    And  now  out  broke 
the   light  from  Darrell's    lofty  casement,  and 
Losely    smiled    fiercely,  and    muttered — hark! 
the   very   words  —  "And  then!  —  come  what 
may." 

Hoofs  are  now  heard  on  the  hard  road,  and 
Jasper  is  joined  by  his  accomplice. 
"Well!"  said  Jasper. 

"  Blount  I"  returned  Cutts ;  "I  have  much  to 
say  as  we  ride." 

"This  will  not  do,"  resumed  Cutts,  as  they 
sped  fast  down  the  lane  ;  "  why,  you  never  told 
me  all  the  drawbacks.  There  are  no  less  than 
four  men  in  the  house — two  servants  besides 
the  master  and  his  secretary  ;  and  one  of  those 
servants,  the  butler  or  valet,  has  fire-arms,  and 
knows  how  to  use  them." 

"  Pshaw  1"'  said  Jasper,  scoflSngly ;  "is  that 
all  ?     Am  I  not  a  match  for  four  ?" 

"  Ko,  it  is  not  all ;  you  told  me  the  master 
of  the  house  was  a  retired  elderly  man,  and  you 
mentioned  his  name.  But  you  never  told  me 
that  your  3Ir.  Darrell  was  the  famous  lawyer 
and  Parliament  man — a  man  about  whom  the 
newspapers  have  been  writing  the  last  six 
months." 

"What  does  that  signify?"' 
"  Signify !  Just  this,  that  there  will  be  ten 
times  more  row  about  the  affair  you  propose 
than  tliere  would  be  if  it  concerned  only  a  stupid 
old  country  squire,  and  therefore  ten  times  as 
much  danger.  Besides,  on  principle,  I  don't 
like  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with  lawyers — a 
cantankrous,  spiteful  set  of  fellows.  And  this 
Guy  Darrell !  Why,  General  Jas,  I  have  seen 
the  man.  He  cross-examined  me  once  when  I 
was  a  witness  on  a  ca:?e  of  fraud,  and  turned 
me  inside  out  with  as  much  ease  as  if  I  had 
been  an  old  pin-cushion  stuft'ed  with  bran.  I 
think  I  see  his  eye  now,  and  I  would  as  lief 


250 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


have  a  loaded  pistol  at  my  head  as  that  eye 
again  fixed  on  mine." 

"  Pooh  I  Yon  have  brought  a  mask;  and, 
besides,  you  need  not  see  him;  I  can  face  him 
alone." 

"  No,  no  ;  there  might  be  murder  !  I  never 
mix  myself  with  things  of  that  kind,  on  princi- 
ple ;  your  plan  will  not  do.  There  might  be  a 
much  safer  chance  of  more  swar/  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent sort  of  scheme.  I  hear  that  the  pictures 
in  that  ghostly  long  room  I  crept  through  are 
worth  a  mint  of  money.  Now  pictures  of  great 
value  are  well  known,  and  there  are  collectors 
abroad  who  would  pay  almost  any  price  for  some 
pictures,  and  never  ask  where  they  came  from; 
hide  them  for  some  years,  perhaps,  and  not 
bring  them  forth  till  any  tales  that  would  hurt 
us  had  died  away.  This  would  be  safe,  I  say. 
If  the  pictures  are  small,  no  one  in  the  old 
house  need  be  disturbed.  I  can  learn  from 
some  of  the  trade  wliat  pictures  Darrell  really 
has  that  would  fetch  a  high  price,  and  then  loi/k 
out  for  customers  abroad.  This  will  take  a  lit- 
tle time,  but  be  worth  waiting  for." 

"  I  will  not  wait,"  said  Jasper,  fiercely ;  "and 
you  are  a  coward.  I  have  resolved  that  to-mor- 
row night  I  will  be  in  that  man's  room,  and  that 
man  shall  be  on  his  knees  before  me." 

Cutts  turned  sharply  round  on  his  saddle,  and 
by  aid  of  the  moonlight  surveyed  Losely's  coun- 
tenance. "  Oh,  I  see,"  he  said,  "  there  is  more 
than  robbery  in  your  mind.  You  have  some 
feeling  of  hate — of  vengeance ;  the  man  has  in- 
jm-ed  you  ?" 

'•  He  has  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  dog,"  said 
Jasper;  "and  a  dog  can  bite." 

Cutts  mused  a  few  moments.  "  I  have  heard 
you  talk  at  times  about  some  rich  relation  or 
connection  on  whom  you  had  claims ;  Darrell  is 
the  man,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  He  is ;  and  hark  ye,  Cutts,  if  you  try  to 
balk  m3  here  I  will  wring  your  neck  otf.  And 
since  I  have  told  you  so  much,  I  will  tell  you  this 
much  more — that  I  don't  think  there  is  the  dan- 
ger you  count  on ;  for  I  don't  mean  to  take  Dar- 
rell's  blood,  and  I  believe  he  would  not  take 
mine." 

"  But  there  may  be  a  struggle — and  then  ?" 
"Ay,  if  so,  and  then — man  to  man,"  replied 
Jasper,  mutteringly. 

Nothing  more  was  said,  but  both  spurred  on 
their  horses  to  a  quicker  pace.  The  sparks 
flashed  from  the  hoofs.  Now  through  the  moon- 
light, now  under  shade  of  the  boughs,  scoured 
on  the  riders — Losely's  broad  chest  and  mark-  j 
ed  countenance,  once  beautiful,  now  fearful,  ' 
formidably  defined  even  under  the  shadows — 
his  comrade's  unsubstantial  figure  and  goblin 
features  flitting  vague  even  under  the  moon- 
light. 

The  town  they  had  left  came  in  sight,  and  by 
this  time  Cutts  had  resolved  on  the  course  his 
prudence  suggested  to  him.  Tlie  discovery 
that,  in  the  proposed  enterprise,  Losely  had  a 
personal  feeling  of  revenge  to  satisfy,  had  suf- 
ficed to  decide  the  accom])licc  jieremptorily  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  aftair.  It  was  his 
rule  to  abstain  from  all  transactions  in  which 
fierce  passions  were  engaged.  And  the  quarrels 
between  relations  or  connections  were  especial- 
ly those  which  his  exjierience  of  human  nature 
told  hinr  brought  risk  upon  all  intcrmoddlers. 


But  he  saw  that  Jasper  was  desperate ;  that  the 
rage  of  the  bravo  might  be  easily  turned  on 
himself;  and  therefore,  since  it  was  no  use  to 
argue,  it  would  be  discreet  to  dissimulate.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  they  reached  their  inn,  and 
were  seated  over  their  brandy-and-water,  Cutts 
resumed  the  conversation,  appeared  gradually 
to  yield  to  Jasper's  reasonings,  concerted  with 
him  the  whole  plan  for  the  next  night's  opera- 
tions, and  took  care  meanwhile  to  pass  the 
brandy.  The  day  had  scarcely  broken  before 
Cutts  was  oft",  with  his  bag  of  implements  and 
tracts.  He  would  have  fain  carried  off  also 
both  the  horses  ;  but  the  hostler,  surly  at  being 
knocked  up  at  so  early  an  hour,  might  not  have 
surrendered  the  one  ridden  by  Jajper  without 
Jasper's  own  order  to  do  so.  Cutts,  however, 
bade  the  hostler  be  sure  and  tell  the  gentleman, 
before  going  away,  that  he,  Cutts,  strongly  ad- 
vised him  "  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  bul- 
locks." 

Cutts,  on  arriving  in  London,  went  straight 
to  Mrs.  Crane's  old  lodging  opposite  to  Jasper's. 
But  she  had  now  removed  to  Eodden  Place,  and 
left  no  address.  On  reaching  his  own  home, 
Cutts,  however,  found  a  note  from  her,  stating 
that  she  should  be  at  her  old  lodging  that  even- 
ing, if  he  would  call  at  half  past  nine  o'clock; 
for,  indeed,  she  had  been  expecting  Jasper's 
promised  visit — had  learned  that  he  had  left  his 
lodgings,  and  was  naturally  anxious  to  learn 
from  Cutts  what  had  become  of  him.  When 
Cutts  called  at  the  appointed  hour  and  told  his 
story,  Arabella  Crane  immediately  recognized 
all  the  danger  which  her  informant  had  so  pru- 
dently shunned.  Nor  was  she  comforted  by 
Cntts's  assurance  that  Jasper,  on  finding  him- 
self deserted,  would  have  no  option  but  to  aban- 
don, or  at  least  postpone,  an  enterprise  that, 
undertaken  singly,  would  be  too  rash  even  for 
his  reckless  temerit_v.  As  it  had  become  the 
object  of  her  life  to  save  Losely  from  justice,  so 
she  now  shrunk  from  denouncing  to  justice  his 
meditated  crime ;  and  the  idea  of  recurring  to 
Colonel  Morley  happily  flashed  upon  her. 

Having  thus  explained  to  the  reader  these 
antecedents  in  the  narrative,  we  return  to  Jas- 
jier.  He  did  not  rise  till  late  at  noon;  and  as 
he  was  generally  somewhat  stupefied  on  rising, 
by  the  drink  he  had  taken  the  night  before,  and 
by  the  congested  brain  which  the  heaviness  of 
such  sleep  produced,  he  could  not  at  first  be- 
lieve that  Cutts  had  altogether  abandoned  the 
enterprise — rather  thought  that,  with  his  habit- 
ual wariness,  that  Ulysses  of  the  Profession  had 
gone  forth  to  collect  further  information  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  jjroposed  scene  of  action. 
He  was  not  fully  undeceived  in  this  belief  till 
somewhat  late  in  the  da\',  when,  strolling  into 
the  stable-yard,  the  hostler,  concluding  from  the 
gentleman's  goodly  thews  and  size  that  he  was 
a  north-country  grazier,  delivered  Cutts's  alle- 
gorical caution  against  the  bullocks. 

Thus  abandoned,  Jasper's  desperate  project 
only  acquired  a  still  more  concentrated  pur]iose, 
and  a  ruder  simplicity  of  action.  His  original 
idea,  on  first  conceiving  the  plan  of  robbery,  had 
been  to  enter  into  Darrell's  presence  disguised 
and  masked.  Even,  however,  before  Cutts  de- 
serted him,  the  mere  hope  of  plunder  had  be- 
come subordinate  to  the  desire  of  a  jiersonal 
triumph;  and  now  that  Cutts  had  left  him  to 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


251 


himself,  and  carried  away  the  means  of  disguise, 
Jasper  felt  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the 
thought  that  his  design  should  have  none  of  the 
characteristics  of  a  vulgar  burglary.  No  mask 
now ;  his  front  should  be  as  open  as  his  demand. 
Cutts's  report  of  the  facility  of  penetrating  into 
Darrell's  very  room  also  lessened  the  uses  of 
an  accomplice."  And  in  the  remodification  of 
his  first  hasty  plan  of  commonplace  midnight 
stealthy  robbery,  he  would  no  longer  even  re- 
quire an  assistant  to  dispose  of  the  plunder  he 
might  gain.  Darrell  should  now  yield  to  his 
exactions,  as  a  garrison  surprised  accepts  the 
terms  of  its  conqueror.  There  would  be  no 
flight,  no  hiding,  no  fear  of  notes  stopped  at 
banks.  He  would  march  out,  hand  on  haunch, 
witli  those  immunities  of  booty  that  belong  to 
the  honors  of  war.  Pleasing  his  self-conceit 
with  so  gallant  a  view  of  his  meditated  exploit, 
Jasper  sauntered  at  dark  into  the  town,  bought 
a  few  long  narrow  nails  and  a  small  hammer, 
and  returning  to  his  room,  by  the  aid  of  the  fire, 
the  tongs,  and  the  hammer,  he  fashioned  these 
nails,  with  an  ease  and  quickness  which  showed 
an  expert  practitioner,  into  instruments  that 
would  readily  move  the  wards  of  any  common 
country-made  lock.  He  did  not  care  for  weap- 
ons. He  trusted  at  need  to  his  own  powerful 
hands.  It  was  no  longer,  too,  the  affair  of  a 
robber  unknown,  unguessed,  who  might  have  to 
fight  his  way  out  of  an  alarmed  household.  It 
was  but  the  visit  which  he,  Jasper  Losely,  Es- 
quire, thought  tit  to  pay,  however  imceremoni- 
ously  and  unseasonably,  to  the  house  of  a  father- 
in-law  !  At  the  worst,  should  he  fail  in  finding 
Darrell,  or  securing  an  imwitnessed  inteiTiew 
— should  he  instead  alarm  the  household,  it 
would  be  a  proof  of  tiie  integrity  of  his  inten- 
tions that  he  had  no  weapons  save  those  which 
Nature  bestows  on  the  wild  man  as  the  mightiest 
of  her  wild  beasts.  At  night  he  mounted  his 
horse,  but  went  out  of  his  way,  keeping  the  higli- 
road  for  an  hour  or  two,  in  order  to  allow  amjde 
time  for  the  farmers  to  have  quitted  the  rent- 
feast,  and  the  old  Manor  House  to  be  hushed  in 
sleej).  At  last,  when  he  judged  the  coast  clear 
and  the  hour  ripe,  he  wound  back  into  the  lane 
toward  Fawley ;  and  when  the  spire  of  its  ham- 
let-church came  in  sight  through  the  frosty  star- 
lit air,  he  dismounted — led  the  horse  into  one 
of  the  thick  beechwoods,  that  make  the  prevail- 
ing characteristic  of  the  wild  country  round  that 
sequestered  dwelling-place — fastened  the  animal 
to  a  tree,  and  stalked  toward  the  park-pales  on 
foot.  Lightly,  as  a  wolf  enters  a  sheepfold, 
he  swung  himself  over  the  moss-grown  fence ; 
he  gained  the  buttresses  of  the  great  raw  pile ; 
high  and  clear  above,  from  Darrell's  chamber, 
streamed  the  light;  all  tlie  rest  of  the  old  house 
was  closed  and  dark,  buried,  no  doubt,  in  slum- 
ber. 

He  is  now  in  the  hollows  of  the  skeleton  pile  ; 
he  mounts  the  ladder ;  the  lock  of  the  door  be- 
fore him  yields  to  his  rude  implements  but  art- 
ful hand.  He  is  in  the  long  gallery  ;  the  moon- 
light comes  broad  and  clear  through  the  large 
casements.  What  wealth  of  art  is  on  the  walls  ! 
but  how  ])rofitless  to  the  robber's  greed !  There, 
through  the  very  halls  which  the  master  had 
built  in  tlie  day  of  his  ambition,  saying  to  him- 
self, "These  are  for  far  Posterity,"  the  step  of 
Violence,  it  may  be  of  Murder,  takes  its  stealthy 


way  to  the  room  of  the  childless  man !  Through 
the  uncompleted  pile,  toward  the  nncompleted 
life,  strides  the  terrible  step. 

The  last  door  yields  noiselessly.  The  small 
wooden  corridor,  narrow  as  the  drawbridore 
which  in  ancient  fortresses  was  swung  between 
the  commandant's  room  in  the  topmost  story 
and  some  opposing  wall,  is  before  him.  And 
Darrell's  own  door  is  half  open  ;  lights  on  the 
table — logs  burning  bright  on  the  hearth.  Cau- 
tiously Losely  looked  through  the  aperture. 
Darrell  was  not  there;  the  place  was  solitary: 
but  the  opposite  door  was  open  also.  Losely's 
fine  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  slight  movement 
of  a  footstep  in  the  room  just  below,  to  which 
that  opposite  door  admitted.  In  an  instant  the 
robber  glided  witJiin  the  chamber— closed  and 
locked  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered,  re- 
taining the  key  about  his  person.  The  next 
stride  brought  him  to  the  hearth.  Beside  it 
hung  the  bell-rope  common  in  old-fashioned 
houses.  Losely  looked  round;  on  the  table,  by 
the  writing  implements,  lay  a  pen-knife.  In 
another  moment  the  rope  was  cut,  high  out  of 
Darrell's  reach,  and  flung  aside.  The  hearth, 
being  adapted  but  for  logwood  fires,  furnished 
not  those  implements  in  which,  at  a  moment 
of  need,  the  owner  may  find  an  available  weapon 
— only  a  slight  pair  of  brass  wood-pincers,  and 
a  shovel  equally  frail.  Such  as  they  were,  how- 
ever, Jasper  quietly  removed  and  hid  them  be- 
hind a  lieavy  old  bureau.  Steps  were  now  heard 
mounting  the  stair  that  led  into  the  chamber; 
Losely  shrunk  back  into  the  recess  beside  the 
mantle-piece.  Darrell  entered,  with  a  book  in 
his  hand,  for  which  he  had,  indeed,  quitted  his 
chamber — a  volume  containing  the  last  Act  of 
Parliament  relating  to  Public  Trusts,  which  had 
been  sent  to  him  by  his  solicitor;  for  he  is 
creating  a  deed  of  trust,  to  insure  to  the  nation 
the  Darrell  Antiquities,  in  the  name  of  his 
father,  the  antiquarian. 

Darrell  advanced  to  the  Avriting-table,  wliich 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  laid  down  the 
book,  and  sighed — the  short,  quick,  impatient 
sigh  which  had  become  one  of  his  peculiar  hab- 
its. The  robber  stole  from  the  recess,  and,  glid- 
ing round  to  the  door  by  which  Darrell  had  en- 
tered, while  the  back  of  the  master  was  still  to- 
ward him,  set  fast  the  lock,  and  appropriated 
the  key  as  he  had  done  at  the  door  which  had 
admitted  himself.  Though  the  noise  in  that 
operation  was  but  slight,  it  rouses  I^jin-ell  from 
his  abstracted  thoughts.  He  turiicd  quicklv, 
and  at  the  same  moment  Losely  advanced  to- 
ward him. 

At  once  Darrell  comprehended  his  danger. 
His  rapid  glance  took  in  all  the  precautions  by 
which  the  intruder  proclaimed  his  lawless  pur- 
pose— the  closed  door,  the  bell-rope  cut  off. 
There,  between  those  four  secret  walls,  must 
pass  the  interview  between  himself  and  the  des- 
perado. He  was  unarmed,  but  he  was  not 
daunted.  It  was  but  man  to  man.  Losely  had 
for  him  his  vast  physical  strength,  his  penury, 
despair,  and  vindictive  purpose.  Darrell  had 
in  his  favor  the  intellect  which  gives  presence 
of  mind ;  the  energy  of  nerve,  which  is  no  more 
to  be  seen  in  the  sinew  and  bone  than  the  fluid 
which  fells  can  be  seen  in  the  jars  and  the 
wires  ;  and  that  superb  kind  of  pride,  which,  if 
terror  be  felt,  makes  its  action  impossible,  be- 


252 


WHAT  ^YILL  HE  DO  WITH  TI  ? 


cause  a  disfrrace,  and  bravery  a  matter  of  course, 
simply  because  it  is  honor. 

As  the  bravo  approached,  by  a  calm  and  slight 
movement  Darrell  drew  to  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  placing  that  obstacle  between  himself  and 
Losely,  and,  extending  his  arm,  said,  "Hold, 
Sir ;  i  forbid  you  to  advance  another  step.  You 
are  here,  no  matter  how,  to  reurge  your  claims 
on  me.     Be  seated  ;  I  will  listen  to  you." 

Darrell's  composure  took  Losely  so  by  sur- 
prise that,  mechanically,  he  obeyed  the  com- 
mand thus  tranquilly  laid  upon  him,  and  sunk 
into  a  chair — facing  Darrell  with  a  sinister  un- 
der-look  from  his  sullen  brow.  '•  Ah  I"  he  said, 
"you  will  listen  to  me  now  ;  but  my  terms  have 
risen." 

Darrell,  who  had  also  seated  himself,  made 
no  answer ;  but  his  face  was  resolute,  and  his 
eye  watchful.  The  ruffian  resumed,  in  a  gruffer 
tone,  "  My  terms  have  risen,  Mr.  DaiTeU." 

'•  Have  they,  Sir?  and  why  ?" 

"  Why  I  Because  no  one  can  come  to  your 
aid  here  ;  because  here  you  can  not  escape ;  be- 
cause here  you  are  in  my  power  I" 

"Eather,  Sir,  I  listen  to  you  because  here 
you  are  under  my  roof-tree ;  and  it  is  you  who 
are  in  my  power  I" 

■•  Yours !  Look  round  ;  the  doors  are  locked 
on  you.  Perhaps  you  think  your  shouts,  your 
cries,  might  bring  aid  to  you.  Attempt  it — 
raiie  your  voice — and  I  strangle  you  with  these 
hands." 

"  If  I  do  not  raise  my  voice,  it  is,  first,  be- 
cause I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  re- 
quired aid  against  one  man  ;  and,  secondly,  be- 
cause I  would  not  expose  to  my  dependents  a 
would-be  assassin  in  him  whom  ray  lost  child 
called  husband.  Hush,  Sir,  hush,  or  your  own 
voice  will  alarm  those  who  sleep  below.  And, 
now,  what  is  it  you  ask  ?  Be  plain,  Sir,  and  be 
brief." 

'•  Well,  if  you  like  to  take  matters  coolly,  I 
have  no  objection.  These  are  my  terms.  You 
have  received  large  sums  this  day;  those  sums 
are  in  your  house,  probably  in  that  bureau  ;  and 
your  life  is  at  my  will." 

"You  ask  the  moneys  paid  for  rent  to-day. 
True,  they  are  in  the  house ;  but  they  are  not 
in  my  apartments.  They  were  received  by 
another;  they  are  kept  by  another.  In  vain, 
through  the  windings  and  passages  of  this  old 
house,  would  you  seek  to  find  the  room  in  which 
he  stores  them.  In  doing  so,  you  will  pass  by 
the  door  of  a  sen^ant  who  sleeps  so  lightly  that 
the  chances  are  that  he  will  hear  you ;  he  is 
armed  with  a  blunderbuss  and  with  pistols.  You 
say  to  me,  '  Your  money  or  your  life.'  I  say  to 
you,  in  reply,  'Neither:  attempt  to  seize  the 
money,  and  your  own  life  is  lost.'" 

"Miser!  I  don't  believe  that  sums  so  large 
are  not  in  your  own  keeping.  And  even  if  they 
are  not,  you  shall  show  me  where  they  are  ;  you 
shall  lead  me  through  those  windings  and  pas- 
sages of  which  you  so  tenderly  warn  me,  my 
hand  on  your  throat.  And  if  servants  wake,  or 
danger  threaten  me,  it  is  you  who  shall  save  me, 
or  die  I  Ha !  you  do  not  fear  me — eh,  Mr.  Dar- 
rell 1"     And  Losely  rose. 

"  I  do  ttot  fear  you,"  replied  Darrell,  still 
seated.  "  I  can  not  conceive  that  you  are  here 
with  no  other  design  but  a  profitless  murder. 
You  are  here,  you  say,  to  make  terms;  it  will 


be  time  enough  to  see  whose  life  is  endangered, 
when  all  your  propositions  have  been  stated.  As 
yet  you  have  only  suggested  a  robbery,  to  which 
you  ask  me  to  assist  you.  Impossible  I  Grant 
even  that  you  were  able  to  murder  me,  you 
would  be  just  as  far  off  from  your  booty.  And 
yet  you  say  your  terms  have  risen  I  To  me  they 
seem  fallen  to — nothing !  Have  you  any  thing 
else  to  say  ?" 

The  calmness  of  Darrell,  so  supremely  dis- 
played in  this  irony,  began  to  tell  upon  the  ruf- 
fian— the  magnetism  of  the  great  man's  eye  and 
voice,  and  steadfast  courage,  gradually  gaining 
power  over  the  wild,  inferior  animal.  Trying  to 
recover  his  constitutional  audacity,  Jasper  said, 
with  a  tone  of  the  old  rollicking  voice,  "Well, 
Mr.  Darrell,  it  is  all  one  to  me  "how  I  wring 
from  you,  in  your  own  house,  what  you  refused 
me  when  I  was  a  suppliant  on  the  road.  Fair 
means  are  pleasanter  than  foid.  I  am  a  gen- 
tleman— the  grandson  of  Sir  Julian  Losely, 
of  Losely  Hall ;  I  am  your  son-in-law ;  and  I 
am  starving.  This  must  not  be;  vrrite  me  a 
check." 

Darrell  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  drew 
the  paper  toward  him. 

"  Oho  I  you  dou"t  fear  me,  eh  ?  This  is  not 
done  from  fear,  mind — all  out  of  pure  love  and 
compassion,  my  kind  father-in-law  ."•  You  will 
write  me  a  check  for  five  thousand  pounds — 
come,  I  am  moderate — your  life  is  worth  a  pre- 
cious deal  more  than  that.  Hand  me  the  check 
— I  will  trust  to  your  honor  to  give  me  no  trouble 
in  cashing  it,  and  bid  you  good-night,  my — fa- 
ther-in-law." 

As  Losely  ceased  with  a  mocking  laugh,  Dar- 
rell sprang  up  quickly,  threw  open  the  small 
casement  which  was  within  his  reach,  and  flung 
from  it  the  paper  on  which  he  had  been  writing, 
and  which  he  wrapped  round  the  heavy  armoriiU 
seal  that  lay  on  the  table. 

Losely  bounded  toward  him.  "What  means 
that? — what  have  you  done?" 

"  Saved  your  life  and  mine,  Jasper  Losely," 
said  Darrell  solemnly,  and  catching  the  arm 
that  was  raised  against  him.  ".We  are  now 
upon  equal  terms." 

"I  understand,"  growled  the  tiger,  as  the 
slaver  gathered  to  his  lips — "you  think  by  that 
paper  to  summon  some  one  to  your  aid." 

"  Xot  so — that  paper  is  useless  while  I  live. 
Look  forth — the  moonlight  is  on  the  roofs  be-' 
low — can  you  see  where  that  paper  has  fallen? 
On  the  ledge  of  a  parapet  that  your  foot  could 
not  reach.  It  faces  the  window  of  a  room  in 
which  one  of  my  household  sleeps ;  it  will  meet 
his  eye  in  the  morning  when  the  shutters  are 
unbarred;  and  on  that  paper  are  vnh  these 
words,  '  If  I  am  this  night  murdered,  the  mur- 
derer is  Jasper  Losely,'  and  the  paper  is  signed 
by  my  name.  Back,  Sir — would  you  doom  your- 
self to  the  gibbet?" 

Darrell  released  the  dread  arm  he  had  arrest- 
ed, and  Losely  stared  at  him,  amazed,  bewil- 
dered. 

Darrell  resumed :  "And  now  I  tell  you  plain- 
ly that  I  can  accede  to  no  terms  put  to  me  thus. 
I  can  sign  my  hand  to  no  order  that  you  may 
dictate,  because  that  would  be  to  sign  myself  a 
coward — and  my  name  is  Darrell  I" 

"  Down  on  your  knees,  proud  man — sign  yoa 
shall,  and  on  your  knees !     I  care  not  now  for 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


253 


gold — I  care  not  now  a  rush  for  my  life.  I 
came  here  to  humble  tlie  man  who  from  first  to 
last  has  so  scornfiillv  humbled  me.  And  I  will, 
I  will !     On  your  knees^on  your  knees !" 

The  robber  flung  liimself  forward  ;  but  Dar- 
rell,  whose  eye  had  never  quitted  the  foe,  was 
prepared  for  and  eluded  the  rush.  Losely, 
missing  his  object,  lost  his  balance,  struck 
against  the  edge  of  the  table  which  partially 
interposed  between  himself  and  his  prey,  and 
was  only  saved  from  falling  by  the  close  neigh- 
borhood of  the  wall,  on  which  he  came  with  a 
shock  that  for  the  moment  well-nigh  stunned 
him.  Meanwhile  Darrell  had  gained  the  hearth, 
and  snatched  from  it  a  large  log,  half  burning. 
Jasper,  recovering  himself,  dashed  the  long 
matted  hair  from  his  eyes,  and,  seeing  undis- 
mayed the  foiTnidalile  weapon  with  which  he 
was  menaced,  cowered  for  a  second  and  dead- 
lier spring. 

"  Stay,  stay,  stay,  parricide  and  madman !" 
cried  Darrell,  his  eye  flashing  brighter  than  the 
brand.  "  It  is  not  my  life  I  plead  for — it  is 
yours.  Remember,  if  I  fall  by  your  hand  no 
hope  and  no  refuge  are  left  to  you !  In  the 
name  of  my  dead  child,  and  under  the  eye  of 
avenging  Heaven,  I  strike  down  the  fury  that 
blinds  you,  and  I  scare  back  your  soul  from  the 
abyss !" 

So  ineffably  grand  were  the  man's  look  and 
gesture — so  full  of  sonorous  terror  the  swell  of 
his  matchless,  all-conquering  voice — that  Lose- 
ly, in  his  midmost  rage,  stood  awed  and  spell- 
bound. His  breast  heaved,  his  eye  fell,  his 
frame  collapsed,  even  his  very  tongue  seemed 
to  cleave  to  the  parched  roof  of  his  mouth. 
Whether  the  effect  so  suddenly  produced  might 
have  continued,  or  whether  the  startled  mis- 
creant might  not  have  lashed  himself  into  re- 
newed wrath  and  inexpiable  crime,  passes  out 
of  conjecture.  At  that  instant  simultaneously 
were  lieard  hurried  footsteps  in  the  corridor 
without,  violent  blows  on  the  door,  and  voices 
exclaiming,  "  Of)en,  open! — Darrell,  Darrell!" 
while  the  bell  at  the  portals  of  the  old  house 
rang  fast  and  shrill. 

"  Ho  I — is  it  so  ?"  growled  Losely,  recovering 
himself  at  those  iHiwelcome  sounds.  "  But  do 
not  think  that  I  will  be  caught  thus,  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap.     No — I  will — " 

"  Hist !"  interrupted  Darrell,  dropping  the 
brand,  and  advancing  quickly  on  the  ruffian — 
"Hist! — let  no  one  know  that  my  daughter's 
husband  came  here  with  a  felon's  purpose.  Sit 
down — down,  I  say.  It  is  for  my  house's  honor 
that  you  should  be  safe."  And"  suddenly  plac- 
ing both  hands  on  Losely's  broad  shoulder  he 
forced  him  into  a  seat. 

During  these  few  hurried  words  the  strokes 
at  the  door  and  the  shouts  without  had  been 
continued,  and  the  door  shook  on  its  yielding 
hinges. 

"  The  key — the  key !"  whispered  Darrell. 

But  the  bravo  was  stupefied  by  the  sudden- 
ness with  which  his  rage  had  been  cowed,  his 
design  baffled,  his  position  changed  from  the 
man  dictating  laws  and  threatening  life  to  the 
man  protected  by  his  intended  victim.  And  he 
was  so  slow  in  even  comprehending  the  mean- 
ing of  Darrell's  order,  that  Darrell  had  scarce- 
ly snatched  the  keys  less  from  his  hand  than 
from  the  pouch' to  which  he  at  last  mechanical-  , 


ly  pointed,  when  the  door  was  burst  open,  and 
Lionel  Haughton,  Alban  Morley,  and  the  Col- 
onel's servant  were  in  the  room.     Not  one  of 
them,  at  the  first  glance,  perceived  the  inmates 
of  the  chamber,  who  were  at  the  right  of  their 
^  entrance,  by  the  angle  of  the  wall  and  in  shad- 
;  ow.     But  out  came  Darrell's  calm  voice — 
I      "Alban!    Lionel! — welcome   always;    but 
I  what  brings  you  hither,  at  such  an  hour,  with 
:  such  clamor  ?     Armed,  too !" 
{      The  three  men  stood  petrified.     There  sMe, 
peaceably  enough,  a  large  dark  form,  its  hands 
on  its  knees,  its  head  bent  down,  so  that  the 
j  features  were  not  distinguishable ;  and  over  the 
j  chair  in  which  this  bending  figure  was  thus  con- 
j  fusedly  gathered  up,  leaned  Guy  Darrell,  with 
!  quiet  ease — no  trace  of  fear  nor  "of  past  danger 
in  his  face,  which,  though  very  pale,  was  serene, 
with  a  slight  smile  on  the  firm  lips. 

"  Well,"  muttered  Alban  jMorley,  slowly  low- 
ering his  pistol,  "well,  I  am  surprised ! — yes,  for 
the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  I  am  surprised !" 
"  Surprised,  perhaps,  to  find  me  at  this  hour 
still  up,  and  with  a  person  upon  business — the 
door  locked.  However,  mutual  explanations 
later.  Of  course  you  stay  here  to-night.  My 
business  with  this — this  visitor  is  now  over.  Li- 
onel, open  that  door — here  is  the  key.  Sir  (he 
touched  Losely  by  the  shoulder,  and"  whispered 
in  his  ear,  'I-iise,  and  speak  not!' — (aloud) — 
Sir,  I  need  not  detain  you  longer.  Allow  me 
to  show  you  the  way  out  of  this  rambling  old 
house." 

Jasper  rose  like  one  half-asleep,  and,  still 
bending  his  form  and  hiding  his  face,  followed 
Darrell  down  the  private  stair,  through  the 
study,  the  library,  into  the  hall,  the  Colonel's 
servant  lighting  the  way  ;  and  Lionel  and  Mor- 
ley, still  too  amazed  for  words,  bringing  up  the 
rear.  The  servant  drew  the  heavy  bolts  from 
the  front  door.  And  now  the  household  had 
caught  alarm.  Mills  first  appeared  with  the 
blunderbuss,  then  the  footman,  then  Fairthorn. 
"  Stand  back,  there !"  cried  Darrell,  and  he 
opened  the  door  himself  to  Losely.  "  Sir,"  said 
he,  then,  as  they  stood  in  the  moonlight,  "mark 
that  I  told  you  truly  you  were  in  my  power ;  and 
if  the  events  of  this  night  can  lead  you  to  ac- 
knowledge a  watchful  Providence,  and  recall 
with  a  shudder  the  crime  from  which  you  have 
been  saved,  why,  then,  I  too,  out  of  gratitude 
to  Heaven,  may  think  of  means  by  which  to 
free  others  from  the  peril  of  your  despair." 

Losely  made  no  answer,  but  slunk  off  with  a 
fast,  furtive  stride,  hastening  out  of  the  moon- 
lit sward  into  the  gloom  of  the  leafless  trees. 


CHAPTER  n. 


If  the  Lion  ever  wear  the  Fox's  hide,  still  he  wears  it  as 
the  Lion. 

When  Darrell  was  alone  with  Lionel  and  Al- 
ban jMorley  the  calm  with  which  he  had  before 
startled  them  vanished.  He  poured  out  his 
thanks  with  deep  emotion.  "  Forgive  me  ;  not 
in  the  presence  of  a  servant  could  I  say,  '  You 
have  saved  me  from  an  unnatural  strife,  and 
my  daughter's  husband  from  a  murderer's  end.' 
But  by  what  wondrous  mercy  did  you  learn  mv 
danger?     Were  you  sent  to  my  aid?" 


2o-i 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Alban  briefly  explained.  "  You  may  judge," 
he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  how  great  was  our  anx- 
iety, when,  following  the  instructions  of  our 
guide,  while  our  driver  rang  his  alarum  at  the 
■  front  portals,  we  made  our  entrance  into  yon 
ribs  of  stone,  found  the  doors  already  opened, 
and  feared  we  might  be  too  late.  But,  mean- 
while, the  poor  woman  waits  without  in  the  car- 
riage that  brought  us  from  the  station.  I  must 
go  and  relieve  her  mind." 

"'And  bring  her  hither,"  cried  Darrell,  "to 
receive  my  gratitude.  iStay,  Alban  ;  while  you 
leave  me  wirh  her  you  will  speak  aside  to  Mills  ; 
tell  him  tliat  you  heard  there  was  an  attempt  to 
be  made  on  t!ie  house,  and  came  to  frustrate  it, 
hut  that  your  fears  were  exaggerated ;  the  man 
was  more  a  half-insane  mendicant  than  a  rob- 
ber. Be  sure,  at  least,  that  liis  identity  with 
Losely  be  not  surmised,  and  bid  Mills  treat  the 
affair  lightly.  Public  men  are  exposed,  you 
know,  to  assaults  from  crack-brained  enthusi- 
asts ;  or  stay — I  was  once  a  lawyer,  and  (con- 
tinued Darrell,  whose  irony  had  become  so  in- 
tegral an  attribute  of  his  mind  as  to  be  proof 
against  all  trial)  there  ai-e  men  so  out  of  their 
wits  as  to  fancy  a  lawyer  has  ruined  them  ! 
Lionel,  tell  poor  Dick  Fairthorn  to  come  to 
me."  AVhen  the  musician  entered,  Darrell 
whispered  to  him,  "  Go  back  to  your  room — 
open  your  casement — step  out  on  to  the  parapet 
—  you  will  see  something  white ;  it  is  a  scrap 
of  paper  wrapped  round  my  old  armorial  seal. 
Bring  it  to  me  just  as  it  is,  Dick.  That  poor 
young  Lionel,  we  must  keep  him  here  a  day  or 
two ;  mind,  no  prickles  for  him,  Dick." 


CHAPTER  III. 


Arabella  Cra.ne  versus  Guy  Darrell:  or.  Woman  versiis 
Lawyer.  In  the  Courts,  Lawyer  would  win;  but  in  a 
Private  Parlor,  foot  to  foot  and  tongue  to  tongue,  Law- 
yer has  not  a  chance. 

Arabella  Craxe  entered  the  room;  Darrell 
hesitated — the  remembrances  attached  to  her 
were  so  painful  and  repugnant.  But  did  he  not 
now  owe  to  her,  perhaps,  his  very  life?  He 
passed  his  hand  rapidly  over  his  brow,  as  if  to 
sweep  away  all  earlier  recollections,  and,  ad- 
vancing quickly,  extended  that  hand  to  her. 
The  stern  woman  shook  her  head,  and  rejected 
the  proffered  greeting. 

"You  owe  me  no  thanks,"  she  said,  in  her 
harsli,  ungracious  accents;  "I  sought  to  save 
not  you,  but  him." 

"  How :"  said  Darrell,  startled  ;  "  you  feel  no 
resentment  against  the  man  who  injured  and 
betrayed  you  ?" 

"What  my  feelings  may  be  toward  him  are 
not  for  you  to  conjecture;  man  could  not  con- 
jecture them  ;  I  am  woman.  What  they  once 
were  I  might  blush  for;  what  they  are  "now,  I 
could  own  without  shame.  But  you,  Mr.  Dar- 
rell— y.)u,  in  the  hour  of  my  uttermost  anguish, 
when  all  my  future  was  laid  desolate,  and  the 
world  lay  crashed  at  my  feet — you — man,  cliiv- 
alrous  man  I — you  had  for  me  no  liimian  com- 
passion— you  thrust  me  in  scorn  from  your  doors 
— you  saw  in  my  woe  nothing  but  my  error — 
you  sent  me  forth,  strii)ped  of  reputation,  brand- 
ed by  your  contempt,  to  famine  or  to  suicide. 
And  you  wonder  that  I  feel  less  resentment 


against  him  who  wronged  me  than  against  you, 
who,  knowing  me  wronged,  only  disdained  my 
grief.  The  answer  is  plain — the  scorn  of  the 
man  she  only  reverenced  leaves  to  a  woman 
no  memory  to  mitigate  its  bitterness  and  gall. 
The  wrongs  inflicted  by  the  man  she  loved  may 
deave,  what  they  have  left  to  me,  an  undving 
sense  of  a  past  existence — radiant,  joyous,  hope- 
ful ;  of  a  time  when  the  earth  seemed  covered 
with  blossoms,  just  ready  to  burst  into  bloom; 
when  the  skies  through  their  haze  took  the  rose- 
hues  as  the  sun  seemed  about  to  rise.  The 
memory  that  I  once  was  happy,  at  least  then,  I 
owe  to  him  who  injured  and  betrayed  me.  To 
you,  when  happiness  was  lost  to  me  forever, 
what  do  I  owe?     Tell  me."  — 

Struck  by  her  words,  more  by  her  impressive 
manner,  though  not  recognizing  the  plea  by 
which  the  defendant  thus  raised  herself  into  the 
accuser,  Darrell  answered  gently,  "  Pardon  me ; 
this  is  no  moment  to  revive  recollections  of 
anger  on  my  part;  but  reflect,  I  entreat  you, 
and  you  will  feel  that  I  was  not  too  harsh.  In 
the  same  position  any  other  man  would  not 
have  been  less  severe." 

"  Any  other  man !" she  exclaimed ;  "ay,  pos- 
sibly !  but  would  the  scorn  of  any  other  rnan  so 
have  crushed  self-esteem  ?  The'  injuries  of  the 
wicked  do  not  sour  ns  against  the  good ;  but  the 
scoff  of  the  good  leaves  us  malignant  against 
i  virtue  itself.  Any  other  man  I  Tut !  Genius 
is  bound  to  be  indulgent.  It  should  know  hit- 
man errors  so  well — has,  with  its  large  lumin- 
ous forces,  such  errors  itself  when  it  deigns  to 
be  human,  that,  where  others  may  scorn,  genius 
should  only  pity."  She  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  slowly  resumed.  "  And  pity  was  my  due. 
Had  you,  or  had  any  one  lofty  as  yourself  "in  re- 
puted honor,  but  said  to  me, "'  Thou  hast  sinned 
— thou  must  suffer ;  but  sin  itself  needs  com- 
passion, and  compassion  forbids  thee  to  despair' 
— why,  then,  I  might  have  been  gentler  to  the 
things  of  earth,  and  less  steeled  against  the  in- 
fluences of  Heaven  than  I  have  been.  That  is 
all— no  matter  now.  :\Ir.  Darrell,  I  would  not 
part  from  you  with  angry  and  bitter  sentiments. 
Colonel  Morley  tells  me  that  you  have  not  only 
let  the  man,  whom  we  need  not  name,  go  free, 
but  that  you  have  guarded  the  secret  of  his  de- 
signs. For  this  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you,  be- 
cause what  is  left  of  that  blasted  and  deformed 
existence  I  have  taken  into  mine.  And  I  woidd 
save  that  man  from  his  own  devices  as  I  would 
save  my  soul  from  its  own  temptations.  Are 
you  large-hearted  enough  to  comprehend  me  ? 
Look  in  my  f;ice — you  have  seen  his ;  all  earth- 
ly love  is  erased  and  blotted  out  of  both." 

Guy  Darrell  bowed  his  head  in  respect  that 
partook  of  awe. 

"You  too,"  said  the  grim  woman,  after  a 
pause,  and  approaching  him  nearer — "^o»,  too, 
have  loved,  I  am  told,  and  you,  too,  were  for- 
saken." 

He  recoiled  and  shuddered. 
"What  is  left  to  your  heart  of  its  ancient 
folly  ?  I  should  like  to  know  I  I  am  curious  to 
learn  if  there  be  a  man  who  can  feel  as  woman ! 
Have  you  only  resentment?  have  you  only  dis- 
dain ?  have  you  only  vengeance  ?  have  you  pity  ? 
or  have  you  the  jealous,  absorbing  desire,  sur- 
viving the  affection  from  which  it  sprang,  that 
still  the  life  wrenched  from  vou  shall  owe,  de- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


255 


spite   itself,  a  melancholy  allegiance  to   your 
own  ?" 

Darrell  impatiently  waved  his  hand  to  forbid 
further  questions  ;  and  it  needed  all  his  sense 
of  the  service  this  woman  had  just  rendered 
him,  to  repress  .his  haughty  displeasure  at  so 
close  an  approach  to  his  torturing  secrets. 

Arabella's  dark  bright  eyes  rested  on  his 
knitted  brow,  for  a  moment,  wistfully,  musingly. 
Then  she  said,  "I  see  I  man's  inflexible  pride — 
no  pardon  there  I  But  own,  at  least,  that  you 
have  suffered." 

"Suffered I"  groaned  Darrell  involuntarily, 
and  pressing  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"You  have  I  and  you  own  it  I  Fellow-suf- 
ferer, I  have  no  more  anger  against  you.  Nei- 
ther should  pity,  but  let  each  respect,  the  other. 
A  few  words  more — this  child  I" 

"Ay — ay — this  child  1  you  will  be  truthful. 
You  will  not  seek  to  deceive  me — you  know 
that  she — she — claimed  by  that  assassin,  reared 
by  his  convict  father — she  is  no  daughter  of  my 
line  I" 

"  What !  would  it  then  be  no  joy  to  know  that 
your  line  did  not  close  with  yourself — that  your 
child  might — " 

"  Cease,  madam,  cease — it  matters  not  to  a 
man  nor  to  a  race  when  it  perish,  so  that  it 
perish  at  last  with  honor.  Who  would  have 
either  himself  or  his  lineage  live  on  into  a  day 
when  the  escutcheon  is  blotted  and  the  name 
disgraced  ?  No  ;  if  that  be  ]\Latilda's  child,  tell 
me,  and  I  will  bear,  as  man  may  do,  the  last 
calamity  which  the  will  of  Heaven  may  inflict. 
If,  as  I  have  all  reason  to  think,  the  tale  be  an 
imposture,  speak  and  give  me  the  sole  comfort 
to  which  I  would  cling  amidst  the  ruin  of  all 
other  hopes." 

"  Verily,"  said  Arabella,  with  a  kind  of  mus- 
ing wonder  in  the  tone  of  her  softened  voice ; 
"  verily,  has  a  man's  heart  the  same  throb  and 
fibre  as  a  woman's?  Had  I  a  child  like  that 
blue-eyed  wanderer  with  the  frail  form  needing 
protection,  and  the  brave  spirit  that  ennobles 
softness,  what  would  be  my  pride !  my  bliss  I 
Talk  of  shame — disgrace  I  Fie — iie — the  more 
the  evil  of  others  darkened  one  so  innocent,  the 
more  cause  to  love  and  shelter  her.  But  / — 
am  childless !  Shall  I  tell  you  that  the  oflense 
which  lies  heaviest  on  my  conscience  has  been 
my  cruelty  to  that  girl  ?  She  was  given  an  in- 
fant to  my  care.  I  saw  in  her  the  daughter  of 
that  false,  false,  mean,  deceiving  friend,  who 
had  taken  my  confidence,  and  bought,  with  her 
supposed  heritage,  the  man  sworn  by  all  oaths 
to  me.  I  saw  in  her,  too,  your  descendant, 
your  rightful  heiress.  I  rejoiced  in  a  revenge 
on  your  daughter  and  yourself.  Think  -not  I 
would  have  foisted  her  on  your  notice!  Xo. 
I  would  have  kept  her  without  culture,  without 
consciousness  of  a  higher  lot ;  and  when  I  gave 
her  up  to  her  grandsire  the  convict,  it  was  a 
triumph  to  think  that  ^Matilda's  child  would  be 
an  outcast.  Terrible  thought !  but  I  was  mad 
then.  But  that  poor  convict  whom  you,  in  vour 
worldly  arrogance,  so  loftily  despise — he  took  to 
his  breast  what  was  flung  away  as  a  worthless 
weed.  And  if  the  flower  keep  the  promise  of 
the  bud,  never  flower  so  fair  bloomed  from  your 
vaunted  stem  I  And  yet  you  would  bless  me, 
if  I  said,  '  Pass  on,  childless  man ;  she  is  no- 
thing to  you!' " 


"  Madam,  let  us  not  argue.  You  are  right ; 
man's  heart  and  woman's  must  each  know  throbs 
that  never  are,  and  never  should  be,  familiar  to 
the  other.  1  repeat  my  question,  and  again  I 
implore  your  answer." 

"I  can  not  answer  for  certain;  and  I  am 
fearful  of  answering  at  all,  lest  on  a  point  so 
important  I  should  mislead  you.  ^latilda's 
child  ?  Jasper  affirmed  it  to  me.  His  father 
believed  him — I  believed  him.  I  never  had  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  till — " 

"Till  what  ?     For  Heaven's  sake,  speak." 

"Till  about  five  years  ago.  or  somewhat  more, 
I  saw  a  letter  from  Gabrielle  Desmarets,  and — " 

"Ah!  which  made  you  suspect,  as  I  do,  that 
the  child  is  Gabrielle  Desmaret's  daughter." 

Arabella  reared  her  crest  as  a  serpent  before 
it  strikes.  "  Gabrielle's  daughter !  You  think 
so.  Her  child  that  I  sheltered  !  Her  child  for 
whom  I  have  just  pleaded  to  you  I  Hers.'" 
She  suddenly  became  silent.  Evidently  that 
idea  had  never  before  struck  her ;  evidently  it 
now  shocked  her ;  evidently  something  was 
passing  through  her  mind  which  did  not  allow 
that  idea  to  be  dismissed.  xVs  Darrell  was  about 
to  address  her,  she  exclaimed,  abruptly,  "Xo! 
say  no  more  now.  You  may  liear  from  me 
again,  should  I  learn  what  may  decide  at  least 
this  doubt  one  war  or  the  other.  Farewell, 
Sir." 

"  Xot  yet.  Permit  me  to  remind  you  that 
you  have  saved  the  life  of  a  man  whose  wealth 
is  immense." 

"  Mr.  Darrell,  my  wealth  in  relation  to  my 
wants  is  perhaps  immense  as  yours,  for  I  do  not 
spend  what  I  possess." 

"  But  this  unhappy  outlaw  whom  you  would 
save  from  himself  can  henceforth  be  to  you  but 
a  burden  and  a  charge.  After  what  has  passed 
to-night,  I  do  tremble  to  think  that  penury  may 
whisper  other  houses  to  rob,  other  lives  to  men- 
ace. Let  me,  then,  place  at  your  disposal,  to 
be  employed  in  such  mode  as  you  deem  the 
best,  whatever  may  be  sulficient  to  secure  an 
object  which  we  may  here  have  in  common." 

"Xo,  Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Arabella,  fiercely; 
"whatever  he  be,  never  with  my  consent  shall 
Jasper  Losely  be  beholden  to  you  for  alms.  If 
money  can  save  him  from  shame  and  a  dread- 
ful death,  that  money  shall  be  mine.  I  have 
said  it.  And  hark  you,  3Ir.  Darrell,  what  is  re- 
pentance without  atonement  ?  I  say  not  that  I 
repent,  but  I  do  know  that  I  seek  to  atone." 

The  iron-gray  robe  fluttered  an  instant,  and 
then  vanished  from  the  room. 

When  Alban  Morley  returned  to  the  library 
he  saw  Darrell  at  the  farther  corner  of  the 
room  on  his  knees.  Well  might  Guy  Darrell 
thank  Heaven  for  the  mercies  vouchsafed  to 
him  that  night.  Life  presened?  Is  that  all? 
jNIight  hfe  yet  be  bettered  and  gladdened? 
Was  there  aught  in  the  grim  woman's  words 
that  might  bequeath  thoughts  which  reflection 
would  ripen  into  influences  over  action?  aught 
that  might  suggest  the  cases  in  which,  not  igno- 
bly, Pity  might  subjugate  Scorn  ?  In  the  royal 
abode  of  that  soul  does  Pride  only  fortify  Hon- 
or ?  is  it  but  the  mild  king,  not  the  imperial 
despot  ?  Would  it  blind,  as  its  rival,  the  rea- 
son ?  Would  it  chain,  as  a  rebel,  the  Heart  ? 
Would  it  mar  the  dominions  that  might  be  se- 
rene by  the  treasures  it  wastes — by  the  wars  it 


25G 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


provokes  ?  Self-knowledge  !  self-knowledge  ! 
From  Heaven,  indeed,  descends  the  precept — 
"  Know  thyself."  That  truth  was  told  to  us 
by  the  old  heathen  oracle.  But  what  old  hea- 
then oracle  has  told  us  how  to  know? 


CHAPTER  rV. 

The  ilan-eater  humiliated.  He  encounters  an  old  ac- 
quaintance in  a  traveler,  who,  like  Shakspeare's 
Jaq:ies,  is  "a  melancholy  fellow;"  who,  also,  like 
Jiiques,  hath  "great  reason  to  be  sad;"  and  who,  still 
like  Jaques,  is  '•  full  of  matter." 

Jasper  Loselt  rode  slowlv  on  through  the 
clear  frosty  night ;  not  back  to  the  country  town 
which  he  had  left  on  his  hateful  errand,  nor  into 
the  broad  road  to  London.     With  a  strange  de- 
sire to  avoid  the  haunts  of  men,  he  selected — at 
each  choice  of  way  in  the  many  paths  branch- 
ing right  and  left,  between  waste  and  woodland 
— the  lane  that  seemed  the  narrowest  and  the 
dimmest.    It  was  not  remorse  that  gnawed  him, 
neither  was  it  the  mere  mercenary  disappoint- 
ment, nor  even  the  pang  of  baffled  vengeance — 
it  was  the  profound  humiliation  of  diseased  self- 
love — the  conviction  that,  with  all  his  brute  pow-  ' 
er,  he  had  been  powerless  in  the  very  time  and 
scene  in  which  he  had  pictured  to  himself  so 
complete  a  triumph.    The  very  quiet  with  which  i 
he  had  escaped  stung  him.    Capture  itself  would  • 
have  been  preferable,  if  capture  had  been  pre- 
ceded by  brawl  and  strife — the  exhibition  of  his  i 
hardihood  and  prowess.     Gloomily  bending  over  | 
his  horse's  neck,  he  cursed  himself  as  fool  and  j 
coward.      What  would  he  have  had ! — a  new  ! 
crime  on  his  soul  ?     Perhaps  he  would  have  an-  | 
swered,  "Any  thing  rather  than  this  humiliating 
failure."     He  did  not  rack  his  brains  with  con-  i 
jecturing  if  Cutts  had  betrayed  him,  or  by  what  | 
other  mode  assistance  had  been  sent  in  such  i 
time  of  need  to  DarreU.     Nor  did  he  feel  that  ! 
hunger  for  vengeance,  whether  on  DarrelT  or  j 
on  his  accomplice  (should  that  accomplice  have 
played  the  traitor),  which  might  have  been  ex-  ; 
pected  from  his  characteristic  ferocity.     On  the 
contrary,  the  thought  of  violence  and  its  excite-  [ 
meats  had  in  it  a  sickness  as  of  shame.    DarreU 
at  that  hour  might  have  ridden  by  him  scathe- 
less.     Cutts  might  have  jeered  and  said,  "l' 
blabbed  your  secret,  and  sent  the  aid  that  foil-  ' 
ed  it;"  and  Losely  would  have  continued  to 
hang  his  head,  nor  lifted  the  Herculean  hand 
that  lay  nerveless  on  the  horse's  mane.     Is  it 
not  commonly  so  in  all  reaction  from  excite- 
ments in  which  self-love  has  been  keenly  gall-  ! 
ed?     Does  not  vanity  enter  into  the  lust  of  , 
crime  as  into  the  desire  of  fame  ?  ; 

At  sunrise  Losely  found  himself  on  the  high  ; 
road,  into  which  a  labyrinth  of  lanes  had  led 
him,  and  opposite  to  a  mile-stone,  by  which  he  ' 
learned  that  he  had  been  long  turning  his  back  ; 
on  the  metropolis,  and  that  he  was  about  ten 
miles  distant  from  the  provincial  city  of  Ouzel- 
ford."    By  this  time  his  horse  was  knocked  up, 
and  his  own  chronic  pains  began  to  make  them- 
selves acutely  felt ;  so  that  wlien,  a  little  farther 
on,  he  came  to  a  wayside  inn,  he  was  glad  to 
halt;  and  after  a  strong  dram,  which  had  the 
effect  of  an  opiate,  he  betook  himself  to  bed, 
and  slept  till  the  noon  was  far  advanced. 

When  Loselv  came  down  stairs  the  common 


room  of  the  inn  was  occupied  by  a  meeting  of 
the  trustees  of  the  high  roads  ;  and,  on  demand- 
ing breakfast,  he  was  shown  into  a  small  sand- 
ed parlor  adjoining  the  kitchen.  Two  other 
occupants — a  man  and  a  woman — were  there 
already,  seated  at  a  table  by  the  tireside,  over 
a  pint  of  half-and-half.  Losely,  warming  him- 
self at  the  hearth,  scarcely  noticed  these  hum- 
ble revelers  by  a  glance.  And  they,  after  a 
displeased  stare  at  the  stalwart  frame  which 
obscured  the  cheering  glow  they  had  hitherto 
monopolized,  resumed  a  muttered  conversation ; 
of  which,  as  well  as  of  the  vile  modicum  which 
refreshed  their  lips,  the  man  took  the  lion's 
share.  Shabbily  forlorn  were  that  man's  habil- 
iments— turned  and  returned,  patched,  darned, 
weather-stained,  grease-stained  —  but  still  re- 
taining that  kind  of  mouldy  grandiose,  bastard 
gentility,  which  implies  that  the  wenrer  has 
known  better  days  ;  and,  in  the  downward  pro- 
gress of  fortunes  when  they  once  fall,  may  prob- 
ably know  still  worse.  The  woman  was  some 
years  older  than  her  companion,  and  still  more 
forlornly  shabby.  Her  garments  seemed  literal- 
ly composed  of  particles  of  dust  glued  together, 
while  her  face  might  have  insured  her  condem- 
nation as  a  witch  before  any  honest  jury  in  the 
reign  of  King  James  the  First.  His  breakfast, 
and  the  brandy  bottle  that  flanked  the  loaf,  were 
now  placed  before  Losely ;  and,  as  distastefully 
he  forced  himself  to  eat,  his  eye  once  more 
glanced  toward,  and  this  time  rested  on,  the 
shabby  man,  in  the  sort  of  interest  with  which  one 
knave  out  of  elbows  regards  another.  As  Jas- 
per thus  looked,  gradually  there  stole  on  him  a 
reminiscence  of  those  coarse  large  features  — 
that  rusty,  disreputable  wig.  The  recognition, 
however,  was  not  mutual ;  and,  presently,  after 
a  whisper  interchanged  between  the  man  and 
the  woman,  the  latter  rose,  and  approaching 
Losely,  dropped  a  courtesy,  and  said,  in  a  weird, 
under  voice,  "  Stranger,  luck's  in  store  for  you. 
Tell  your  fortune?"  As  she  spoke,  from  some 
dust  hole  in  her  garments  she  produced  a  pack 
of  cards,  on  whose  half-obliterated  faces  seem- 
ed incrusted  the  dirt  of  ages.  Thrusting  these 
antiquities  under  Jasper's  nose,  she  added, 
"  Wish  and  cut." 

"Pshaw,"  said  Jasper,  who,  though  sufficient- 
1)'  superstitious  in  some  matters  and  in  regard 
to  some  persons,  was  not  so  completely  under 
the  influence  of  that  imaginative  infirmity  as  to 
take  the  creature  before  him  for  a  sibyl.  "Get 
away ;  you  turn  my  stomach.  Your  cards  smell ; 
so  do  you !" 

"Forgive  her,  worthy  Sir,"  said  the  man, 
leaning  forward.  "The  hag  may  be  unsavory, 
but  she  is  wise.  The  Three  Sisters  who  accost- 
ed the  Scottish  Thane,  Sir  (Macbeth — you  have 
seen  it  on  the  stage  ?),  were  not  savory.  With- 
ered, and  wild  in  their  attire,  Sir,  but  they  knew 
a  thing  or  two!  She  sees  luck  in  your  face. 
Cross  her  hand,  and  give  it  vent!'' 

"Fiddledee,"  said  the  irreverent  Losely. 
"Take  her  off,  or  I  shall  scald  her,"  and  he 
seized  the  kettle. 

The  hag  retreated  grumbling ;  and  Losely, 
soon  dispatching  his  meal,  placed  his  feet  on 
the  hobs,  and  began  to  meditate  what  course  to 
adopt  for  a  temporary  subsistence.  He  had 
broken  into  the  last  pound  left  of  the  money 
which  he  had  extracted  from  Mrs.  Crane's  purse 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


257 


some  days  before.  He  recoiled  with  terror  from 
the  thought  of  returnino;  to  town  and  placing 
himself  at  her  mercy.  Yet  what  option  had  he? 
While  thus  musing,  he  turned  impatiently  round 
and  saw  that  the  shabby  man  and  the  dusty  hag 
were  engaged  in  an  amicable  game  of  ecarte, 
with  those  very  cards  which  had  so  offended  his 
olfactory  organs.  At  that  sight  the  old  instinct 
of  the  gambler  struggled  back ;  and,  raising  him- 
self up,  he  looked  over  the  cards  of  the  players. 
The  miserable  wretches  were,  of  course,  play- 
ing for  nothing;  and  Losely  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  man  was,  nevertheless,  trying  to  cheat 
the  woman.  Positively  he  took  that  man  into 
more  respect ;  and  that  man,  noticing  the  inter- 
est with  which  Losely  surveyed  the  game,  look- 
ed up,  and  said,  "While  the  time,  Sir?  What 
say  you  ?  A  game  or  two  ?  I  can  stake  my 
pistoles — that  is,  Sir,  so  far  as  a  fourpenny  bit 
goes.  If  ignorant  of  this  French  game,  Sir, 
cribbage  or  all-fours." 

"No,"  said  Losely,  mournfully;  "there  is 
nothing  to  be  got  out  of  you  ;  otherwise — "  He 
stojiped  and  sighed.  "  But  I  have  seen  you  un- 
der other  circumstances.  What  has  become  of 
your  Theatrical  Exhibition?  Gambled  it  away  ? 
Yet,  from  what  I  see  of  your  play,  I  think  jou 
ought  not  to  have  lost,  Mr.  Rugge." 

The  ex-manager  started. 

"^liat!  You  knew  me  before  the  Storm! — 
before  the  lightning  struck  me,  as  I  may  say. 
Sir — and  falling  into  difficulties,  I  became — a 
WTCck  ?  You  knew  me  ? — not  of  the  Company  ? 
— a  spectator  ?" 

"As  you  say — a  spectator.  You  had  once  in 
your  employ  an  actor — clever  old  fellow.  Waife, 
I  think,  he  was  called." 

"  Ha !  hold !  At  that  name,  Sir,  my  wounds 
bleed  afresh.  From  that  execrable  name,  Sir, 
there  hangs  a  tale  !" 

"  Indeed  !  Then  it  will  be  a  relief  to  you  to 
tell  it,"  said  Losely,  resettling  his  feet  on  the  hob, 
and  snatching  at  any  diversion  from  his  own  re- 
flections. 

"  Sir,  when^  gentleman,  who  is  a  gentleman, 
asks,  as  a  favor,  a  specimen  of  my  powers  of  re- 
cital, not  professionally,  and  has  before  him  the 
sparkling  goblet,  which  he  does  not  invite  me 
to  share,  he  insults  my  fallen  fortunes.  Sir,  I 
am  poor — I  own  it ;  I  have  fallen  into  the  sere 
and  yellow  leaf,  Sir;  but  I  have  still  in  this 
withered  bosouT  the  heart  of  a  Briton  I" 

"  Warm  it,  Mr.  Rugge.  Help  yourself  to  the 
brandy — and  the  lady  too." 

"  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman ;  Sir,  your  health. 
Hag,  drink  better  days  to  us  both.  That  wo- 
man, Sir,  is  a  hag,  but  she  is  an  honor  to  her 
sex — faithful  I" 

"  It  is  astonishing  how  faithful  ladies  are 
when  not  what  is  called  beautiful.  I  speak  from 
painful  experience,"  said  Losely,  growing  debon- 
nair  as  the  liquor  relaxed  his  gloom,  and  regain- 
ing that  levity  of  tongue  which  sometimes  straved 
into  wit,  and  which,  springing  originally  from 
animal  spirits  and  redundant  health — still  came 
to  him  mechanically  whenever  roused  by  com- 
panionship from  alternate  inteiTals  of  lethargy 
and  pain.  "But  now,  ^Ir.  Rugge,  I  am  all  ears ; 
perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  be  all  tale." 

With  tragic  aspect,  unrelaxed  by  that  jou  de 
mots,  and  still  wholly  unrecognizing  in  the  mass- 
ive form  and  discolored  swollen  countenance 
R 


of  the  rough-clad  stranger  the  elegant  propor- 
tions, the  healthful,  blooming,  showy  face,  and 
elaborate  fopperies  of  the  Jasper  Losely  who 
had  sold  to  him  a  Phenomenon  which  proved 
so  evanishing,  Rugge  entered  into  a  prolix  his- 
tory of  his  wrongs  at  the  hands  of  Waife,  of 
Losely,  of  Sophy.  Only  of  Mrs.  Crane  did  he 
speak  with  respect ;  and  Jasper  then  for  the  first 
time  learned — and  rather  with  anger  for  the  in- 
terference than  gratitude  for  the  generosity — 
that  she  had  repaid  the  £100,  and  therein-  can- 
celed Rugge"s  claim  upon  the  child.  The  ex- 
manager  then  proceeded  to  the  narrative  of  his 
subsequent  misfortunes— all  of  which  he  laid 
to  the  charge  of  Waife  and  the  Phenomenon. 
"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  was  ambitious.  From  my 
childhood's  hour  I  dreamed  of  the  great  York 
Theatre — dreamed  of  it  literally  thrice.  Fatal 
Vision  1  But,  like  other  dreams,  that  dream 
would  have  faded — been  forgotten  in  the  work- 
day world — and  I  should  not  have  fallen  into 
the  sere  and  yellow,  but  have  had,  as  formerly, 
troops  of  friends,  and  not  been  reduced  to  the 
horrors  of  poverty  and  a  faithful  Hag.  But, 
Sir,  when  I  first  took  to  my  bosom  that  fiend, 
William  Waife,  he  exhibited  a  genius.  Sir,  that 
Dowton  (you  have  seen  Dowton  ? — grand  !)  was 
a  stick  as  compared  with.  Then  my  ambition, 
Sir,  blazed  and  flared  up — obstreperous,  and  my 
childhood's  di'eam  haunted  me ;  and  I  went 
about  musing — [Hag,  you  recollect !] — and  mut- 
tering '  The  Royal  Theatre  at  York.'  But  in- 
credible though  it  seem,  the  ungrateful  scorpion 
left  me,  with  a  treacherous  design  to  exhibit 
the  parts  I  had  fostered,  on  the  London  boards; 
and  even-handed  Justice,  Sir,  returned  the  pois- 
oned chalice  to  his  lips,  causing  him  to  lose  an 
eye  and  to  hobble — besides  splitting  up  his  voice 
— which  served  him  right.  And  again  I  took 
the  scorpion  for  the  sake  of  the  Phenomenon. 
I  had  a  babe  myself  once,  Sir,  though  you  may 
not  think  it.  Gormerick  (that  is  this  faithful 
Hag)  gave  the  babe  Daffy's  Elixir,  in  teething; 
but  it  died — convulsions.  I  comforted  myself 
when  that  Phenomenon  came  out  on  my  stage 
— in  pink  satin  and  pearls.  'Ha!'  I  said,  'the 
great  York  Theatre  shall  yet  be  mine!'  The 
haunting  idea  became  a  Mania,  Sir.  The  learn- 
ed say  that  there  is  a  ^Mania  called  Money  Ma- 
nia*— when  one  can  think  but  of  the  one  thing 
needful — as  the  guilty  Thane  saw  the  dagger, 
Sir — you  understand.  And  when  the  Phenom- 
enon had  vanished  and  gone,  as  I  was  told,  to 
America,  where  I  now  wish  I  was  myself,  act- 
ing Rolla  at  Kew  York  or  elsewhere,  to  a  free 
and  enlightened  people — then.  Sir,  the  Mania 
grew  on  me  still  stronger  and  stronger.  There 
was  a  pride  in  it.  Sir— a  British  pride.  I  said 
to  this  faithful  Hag — '  What — shall  I  not  have 
the  York  because  that  false  child  has  deserted 
me  ?  Am  I  not  able  to  realize  a  Briton's  ambi- 
tion without  being  beholden  to  a  Phenomenon 
in  spangles?'  Sir,  I  took  the  York!  Alone  I 
did  it !" 

"  And,"  said  Losely,  feeling  a  sort  of  dreary 
satisfaction  in  listening  to  the  grotesque  sorrows 
of  one  whose  condition  seemed  to  him  yet  more 
abject  than  his  own — ''And  the  York  Theatre 
alone  perhaps  did  you."' 

"Right,  Sir,"  said  Rugge — half  dolorously, 


I 


Query — Monoaiania. 


258 


WHAT  AVILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


half  exultingly.  "  It  was  a  Grand  Concern,  and  | 
might  have  done  for  the  Bank  of  England !  It  : 
swallowed  up  my  capital  with  as  much  ease, 
Sir,  as  I  could  swallow  an  oyster  if  there  were  I 
one  upon  that  plate.  I  saw  how  it  would  be 
the  very  first  week — when  I  came  out  myself,  j 
strong — Kean's  own  part  in  the  Iron  C'test —  ' 
Mortimer,  Sir;  there  warn't  three  pounds  ten  I 
in  the  house — packed  audience,  Sir,  and  they 
had  t!ie  face  to  hiss  me.  '  Hag,'  said  I,  to  Mrs. 
Gormerick,  '  this  Theatre  is  a  howling  wilder- 
ness.' Bat  there  is  a  fascination  in  a  Grand 
Concern,  of  which  one  is  the  head — one  goes  on 
and  on.  All  the  savings  of  a  life  devoted  to  the 
British  Drama  and  the  productions  of  native 
genius  went  in  what  I  may  call — ajift'y  I  But 
it  was  no  common  object,  Sir,  to  your  sight  dis- 
played— but  what  with  pleasure.  Sir  (I  appeal 
to  the  Hag  !),  Heaven  itself  surveyed ! — a  great 
man  struggling.  Sir,  with  the  storms  of  fate,  and 
greatly  falling.  Sir,  with — a  sensation!  York 
remembers  it  to  this  day  I  I  took  the  benefit  of 
the  Act — it  was  the  only  benefit  I  did  take — 
and  nobody  was  the  better  for  it.  But  I  don't 
repine — I  realized  my  dream :  that  is  more  than 
all  can  say.  Since  then  I  have  had  many  downs, 
and  no  ups.  I  have  been  a  messenger.  Sir — a 
prompter.  Sir,  in  my  own  Exhibition — to  which 
my  own  clown,  having  married  into  the  tragic 
line,  succeeded,  Sir,  as  proprietor;  buying  of 
me,  when  I  took  the  York,  the  theatre,  scenery, 
and  properties,  Sir,  with  the  right  still  to  call 
himself,  '  Rugge's  Grand  Theatrical  Exhibition,' 
for  an  old  song.  Sir — ^lelancholy.  Tyi'annized 
over.  Sir — snubbed  and  bullied  by  a  creature 
dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority;  and  my  own 
tights — scarlet — as  worn  by  me  in  my  own  ap- 
plauded part  of  'The  Remorseless  Baron.'  At 
last,  with  this  one  faithful  creature,  I  resolved 
to  burst  the  chains — to  be  free  as  air — in  short, 
a  chartered  libertine,  Sir.  We  have  not  much, 
but,  thank  the  immortal  gods,  we  are  independ- 
ent, Sir,  the  Hag  and  I,  chartered  libertines ! 
And  we  are  alive  still — at  which,  in  strict  confi- 
dence, I  may  own  to  you  that  I  am  astonished." 
"Yes !  you  do  live,"  said  Jasper,  much  inter- 
ested— for  how  to  live  at  all  was  at  that  moment 
a  matter  of  considerable  doubt  to  himself;  '•  you 
do  live — it  !s  amazing  I     How?" 

"  The  Faithful  tells  fortunes ;  and  sometimes 
we  pick  up  windfalls — widows  and  elderly  single 
ladies — but  it  is  dangerous.  Labor  is  sweet, 
Sir;  but  not  hard  labor  in  the  dungeons  of  a 
Bridewell;  she  has  known  that  labor,  Sir;  and 
in  those  intervals  I  missed  her  much.  Don't 
cry.  Hag ;  I  repeat,  I  live !" 

"I  understand  now;  you  live  upon  her! 
They  are  the  best  of  creatui-es,  these  hags,  as 
you  call  them,  certainly.  \Vell,  well,  no  salving 
what  a  man  may  come  to !  I  suppose  you  have 
never  seen  Waife,  nor  that  fellow  you  say  was 
so  well-dressed  and  good-looking,  and  who  sold 
you  the  Phenomenon,  nor  the  Phenomenon  her- 
self— Eh?"  added  Losely,  stretching  himself, 
and  yawning,  as  he  saw  the  brandy  bottle  was 
finished. 

"  I  have  seen  Waife — the  one-eyed  monster ! 
Aha — I  have   seen   him ! — and  yesterday  too  ; 
and  a  great  comfort  it  was  to  me  too." 
"You  saw  Waife  yesterday — where?" 
"  At  Ouzelford,  which  I  and  the  Faithful  left 
this  morning." 


"And  what  was  he  doing?"  said  Losely,  witli 
well-simulated  inditi'erence.  "  Begging,  break- 
ing stones,  or  what?" 

"No,"  said  Rugge,  dejectedly;  "I  can't  say 
it  was  what,  in  farcical  composition,  I  should 
call  such  nuts  to  me  as  that,  Sir.  Still,  he  was 
in  a  low  way — seemed  a  peddler  or  hawker,  sell- 
ing out  of  a  pannier  on  the  Rialto — I  mean  the 
Corn-market,  Sir — not  even  a  hag  by  his  side, 
only  a  great  dog — French.  A  British  dog  would 
have  scorned  such  fellowship.  And  he  did  not 
look  merrv,  as  he  used  to  do  when  in  my  troop. 
Did  he,  Hag  ?" 

"  His  conscience  smites  him,"  said  the  Hag, 
solemnly. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?"  ^ 

"  Why,  no.  I  should  have  liked  it,  but  we 
could  not  at  that  moment,  seeing  that  we  were 
not  in  our  usual  state  of  independence.  This 
faithful  creature  was  being  led  before  the  mag- 
istrates, and  I  too — chai-ge  of  cheating  a  cook 
maid,  to  whom  the  Hag  had  only  said,  '  that  if 
the  cards  spoke  true  she  would  ride  in  her  car- 
riage.' The  charge  broke  down  ;  but  we  were 
placed  for  the  night  in  the  Cells  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, remanded,  and  this  morning  banished  from 
the  city,  and  are  now  on  our  way  to — any  other 
city  ;  eh,  Hag  ?" 

"  And  the  old  man  was  not  with  the  Phenom- 
enon ?     What  has  become  of  her,  then  ?" 

"  Perhaps  she  may  be  with  him  at  his  house, 
if  he  has  one  ;  only  she  was  not  with  him  on 
the  Rialto  or  Corn-market.  She  was  with  him 
two  years  ago,  I  know ;  and  he  and  she  were 
better  off  then  than  he  is  now,  I  suspect.  And 
that  is  why  it  did  me  good.  Sir,  to  see  him  a 
peddler — a  common  peddler — fallen  into  the 
sere,  like  the  man  he  abandoned  !" 

"  Humph  !  where  were  they  two  years  ago  ?" 

"At  a  village  not  far  from  Humberston.    He 

had  a  pretty  house,  Sir,  and  sold  baskets  ;  and 

the  girl  was  there  too,  favored  by  a  great  lady — 

a  Marchioness,  Sir !     Gods  !" 

'•  Marchioness  ?  —  near  Humberston  ?  The 
Marchioness  jif  ^Vlontfort,  I  su])pose." 

"  Likely  enough  ;  I  don't  remember.  All  I 
know  is,  that  two  years  ago  my  old  clown  was 
my  tyrannical  manager  ;  and  he  said  to  me, 
with  a  sneer,  '  Old  Gentleman  Waife,  whom 
you  used  to  bully,  and  his  Juliet  Araminta,  are 
in  clover.'  And  the  mocking  varlet  went  on  to 
say  that  when  he  had  last  visited  Humberston, 
in  the  race-week,  a  young  tradesman,  who  was 
courting  the  Columbine,  whose  young  idea  I 
myself  taught  to  shoot  on  the  light  fantastic 
toe,  treated  that  Columbine  and  one  of  her  sis- 
ter train  (being,  indeed,  her  aunt,  who  has  since 
come  out  at  the  Surrey  in  Desdemona)  to  a  pic- 
nic in  a  fine  park.  "(That's  discipline! — ha, 
ha  !)  And  there.  Sir,  Columbine  and  her  aunt 
saw  Waife  on  the  other  side  of  a  stream  by  which 
they  sate  carousing." 

■'  The  clown  perhaps  said  it  to  spite  you." 
"  Columbine  herself  confirmed  his  tale,  and 
said  that,  on  returning  to  the  Village  Inn  for 
the  Triumphal  Car  (or  bus)  which  brought  them, 
she  asked  if  a  Air.  Waife  dwelt  thereabouts,  and 
was  told,  '  Yes,  with  his  grand-daughter.'  And 
she  went  on  asking,  till  all  came  out  as  the  clown 
reported.  And  Columbine  had  not  even  the 
gratitude,  the  justice,  to  expose  that  villain — 
not  even  to  say  he  had  been  my  perfidious  serv- 


WHAT  WELL  HE  DO  WITH  IT ' 


259 


ant !  She  had  the  face  to  tell  me  '  she  thought 
it  might  harm  him,  and  he  was  a  kind  old 
soul.'  Sir,  a  Columbine  whose  toes  I  had  rapped 
scores  of  times  before  they  could  be  turned  out, 
was  below  contempt  I  but  when  ray  own  clown 
thus  triumphed  over  me,  in  parading  before  my 
vision  the  bloated  prosperity  of  mine  enemy,  it 
went  to  ray  heart  like  a  knife  ;  and  we  had 
words  on  it.  Sir,  and — I  left  him  to  his  fate. 
But  a  peddler  !  Gentleman  Waife  has  come  to 
that !  The  Heavens  are  just.  Sir,  and  of  our 
pleasant  vices,  Sir,  make  instruments  that  — 
that — " 

"  Scourge  us,"  prompted  the  Hag,  severely. 

Losely  rang  the  bell ;  the  maid-servant  ap- 
peared. '  "  My  horse  and  bill.  Well,  Mr.  Riigge, 
I  must  quit  your  agreeable  society.  I  am  not 
overflowing  with  wealth  at  this  moment,  or  I 
would  request  your  acceptance  of — " 

"  The  smallest  trifle,"  inteniipted  the  Hag, 
with  her  habitual  solemnity  of  aspect. 
■  Losely,  who,  .in  his  small  way,  had  all  the  lilx 
erality  of  a  Catiline,  '^alieni  appeiens,  sui  jiroju- 
sus,  drew  forth  the  few  silver  coins  yet  remain- 
ing to  him  ;  and  though  he  must  have  calculated 
that,  after  paying  his  bill,  tliere  could  scarcely 
be  three  shillings  left,  he  chucked  two  of  them 
toward  the  Hag,  who,  clutching  them  with  a 
profound  courtesy,  then  handed  them  to  the 
fallen  monarch  by  her  side,  with  a  loyal  tear 
and  a  quick  sob  that  might  have  touched  the 
most  cynical  republican. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  Losely  was  again  on 
horseback ;  and  as  he  rode  toward  Ouzelford, 
Rugge  and  his  dusty  Faithful  shambled  on  in 
the  opposite  direction — shambled  on,  foot-sore 
and  limping,  along  the  wide,  waste,  wintry  thor- 
oughfare— vanished  from  the  eye,  as  their  fates 
henceforth  from  this  story.  There  they  go  by 
the  white  hard  mile-stone ;  farther  on,  by  the 
trunk  of  the  hedge-row  tree,  which  lies  lopped 
and  leafless — cumbering  the  way-lide,  till  the 
time  come  to  cast  it  otf  to  the  thronged,  dull 
stack-yard  ;  farther  yet,  where  the  ditch  widens 
into  yon  stagnant  pool,  with  the  great  dung- 
heap  by  its  side.  There  the  road  turns  aslant ; 
the  dung-heap  hides  them.  Gone !  and  not  a 
speck  on  the  Immemorial,  L^niversal  Thorough- 
fare. 


CHAPTER  V. 


No  wmd  so  cutting  as  that  which  sets  in  the  quarter 
from  Mhich  the  sun  rises. 

The  town  to  which  I  lend  the  disguising 
name  of  Ouzelford.  which  in  years  by-gone  was 
represented  by  Guy  Darrell,  and  which" in  years 
to  come  may  preserve  in  its  municipal  hail  his 
eiBgies  in  canvas  or  stone,  is  one  of  the  hand- 
somest in  England.  As  you  approach  its  sub- 
urbs from  the  London  Road  it  rises  clear  and 
wide  upon  your  eye,  crowning  the  elevated  ta- 
ble-land upon  which  it  is  built ;  a  noble  rana;e 
of  prospect  on  either  side,  rich  with  hedge-rows 
not  yet  sacrificed  to  the  stern  demands  of  mod- 
ern agriculture — venerable  woodlands,  and  the 
green  jiastures  round  many  a  rural  thane's  frank, 
hospitable  hall  ;  no  one  Great  House  banishing 
from  leagues  of  landscape  the  abodes  of  knight 
and  squire,  nor  menacing,  with  "  the  legitimate 
influence  of  property,"  the  votes  of  rebellious 


burghers.  Every  where,  like  finger-posts  to 
heaven,  you  may  perceive  the  church-towers  of 
rural  hamlets  embosomed  in  pleasant  valleys, 
or  climbing  up  gentle  slopes.  At  the  horizon 
the  blue  fantastic  outline  of  girdling  hills  min- 
gles with  the  clouds.  A  famous  old  cathedral, 
neighbored  by  the  romantic  ivy-grown  walls  of 
a  ruined  castle,  soars  up  from  the  centre  of  the 
town,  and  dominates  the  whole  survey — calm, 
as  with  conscious  power.  Kearing  the  town, 
the  villas  of  merchants  and  traders,  released, 
perhaps,  from  business,  skirt  the  road,  with  trim 
gardens  and  shaven  la\^-ns.  Now  the  small  riv- 
er, or  rather  rivulet,  of  Ouzel,  from  which  the 
town  takes  its  name,  steals  out  from  deep  banks 
covered  with  brushwood  or  aged  trees,  and. 
widening  into  brief  importance,  glides  under 
the  arches  of  an  ancient  bridge  ;  runs  on,  clear 
and  shallow,  to  refresh  low  fertile  daiiT-mead- 
ows,  dotted  with  kme  ;  and  finally  quits  the 
view,  as  brake  and  copse  close  round  its  narrow- 
ing, winding  way ;  and  that  which,  under  the' 
city  bridge,  was  an  imposing  noiseless  stream, 
becomes,  amidst  rustic  solitudes,  an  insignifi- 
cant babbling  brook. 

From  one  of  the  largest  villas  in  these  charm- 
ing suburbs  came  forth  a  gentleman,  middle- 
aged,  and  of  a  very  mild  and  prepossessing 
countenance.  A  young  lady  without  a  bonnet, 
but  a  kerchief  thrown  over  her  sleek  dark  hair, 
accompanied  him  to  the  garden-gate,  twining 
both  hands  aff'ectionately  round  his  arm,  and 
entreating  him  not  to  stand  in  thorough  draughts 
and  catch  cold,  nor  to  step  into  puddles  and  wet 
his  feet,  and  to  be  sure  to  be  back  before  dark, 
as  there  were  such  shocking  accounts  in  the 
newspapers  of  persons  robbed  and  garroted  even 
in  the  most  populous  highways  ;  and,  above  all, 
not  to  listen  to  the  beggars  in  the  street,  and 
allow  himself  tp  be  taken  in  ;  and  before  final- 
ly releasing  him  at  the  gate  she  buttoned  his 
great-coat  up  to  his  chin,  thrust  two  pellets  of 
cotton  into  his  ears,  and  gave  hira  a  parting 
kiss.  Then  she  watched  him  tenderly  for  a 
mintite  or  so  as  he  strode  on  with  the  step  of  a 
man  who  needed  not  all  those  fostering  admo- 
nitions and  coddling  cares. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  lady  and 
the  windows  of  the  villa,  the  gentleman  cautious- 
ly unbuttoned  his  great-coat,  and  removed  the  cot- 
ton from  his  ears.  "vShe  takes  much  after  her 
mother,  does  Anna  [Maria,"  muttered  the  gentle- 
man ;  "  and  I  am  verj-  glad  she  is  so  well  mar- 
ried." 

He  had  not  advanced  many  paces  when, 
from  a  branch-road  to  the  right  that  led  to 
the  railway  station,  another  gentleman,  much 
younger,  and  whose  dress  unequivocally  bespoke 
hira  a  minister  of  our  Church,  came  suddenly 
upon  hira.  Each  with  surprise  recognized  the 
other. 

"  What ! — Mr.  George  Morley  !" 

"]\Ir.  Hartopp  ! — How  are  you,  my  dear  Sir? 
— What  brings  you  so  far  from  home?" 

"  I  am  on  a  visit  to  my  daughter,  Anna  Maria. 
She  has  not  been  long 'married — to  young  Jes- 
sop.  Old  Jessop  is  one  of  the  principal  mer- 
chants at  Ouzelford — verv-  respectable,  worthy 
family.  The  young  couple  are  happily  settled 
in  a  remarkably  snug  villa — that  is  it  with  the 
portico,  not  a  hundred  yards  behind  us,  to  the 
right.     Very  handsome  town,  Ouzelford ;  you 


260 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


are  bound  to  it,  of  course? — we  can  walk  togeth- 
er. I  am  going  to  look  at  the  jjapers  in  the  City 
Rooms  — very  fine  rooms  these  are.  But  you 
are  straight  from  London,  perhaps,  and  have 
seen  the  day's  journals?  Any  report  of  the 
Meeting  in  aid  of  Ragged  Schools?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  I  have  not  come  from 
London  this  morning,  nor  seen  the  papers." 

"  Oh  I^there's  a  strange-looking  fellow  fol- 
lowing us  ;  but  perhaps  he  is  your  servant  ?" 

"  Not  so,  but  my  traveling  companion — in- 
deed my  guide.  In  fact,  I  come  to  Ouzelford 
in  the  faint  hope  of  discovering  there  a  poor  old 
friend  of  mine,  of  whom  I  have  long  been  in 
search." 

"Perhaps  the  Jessops  can  help  you;  they 
know  every  body  at  Ouzelford.  But  now  I  meet 
you  thus  by  surprise,  Mr.  George,  I  should  very 
much  like  to  ask  your  advice  on  a  matter  which 
has  been  much  on  my  mind  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  and  which  concerns  a  person  I  contrived 
to  discover  at  Ouzelford,  though  I  certainly  was 
not  in  search  of  him  —  a  person  about  whom 
you  and  I  had  a  conversation  a  few  years  ago, 
when  you  were  staying  with  your  worthy  fa- 
ther." 

"  Eh  ?"  said  George,  quickly ;  "  whom  do  you 
speak  of?" 

"That  singular  vagabond  who  took  me  in, 
you  remember — called  himself  Chapman — real 
name  William  Losel}',  a  returned  convict.  You 
would  have  it  that  he  was  innocent,  though  the 
man  himself  had  pleaded  guilty  on  his  trial." 

"  His  whole  character  belied  his  lips,  then. 
Oh,  Mr.  Hartopp,  tliat  man  commit  the  crime 
imputed  to  him  ! — a  planned,  deliberate  rol)bcry 
— an  ungrateful,  infamous  breach  of  trust !  That 
man — that! — he  who  rejects  the  money  he  does 
not  earn,  even  when  pressed  on  him  by  anxious, 
imploring  friends — he  who  has  now  gone  vol- 
untarily forth,  aged  and  lonely,  to  wring  his 
bread  from  the  humblest  calling  rather  than  in- 
cur the  risk  of  injuring  the  child  with  whose  ex- 
istence he  had  cliarged  himself  !—/ie  a  dark  mid- 
night thief!  Believe  him  not,  though  his  voice 
may  say  it.  To  screen,  perhaps,  some  other 
man,  he  is  telling  you  a  noble  lie.  But  what  of 
him  ?  Have  you  really  seen  him,  and  at  Ouzel- 
ford?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Yesterday.  I  was  in  the  City  Reading-room, 
looking  out  of  the  Avindow.  I  saw  a  great  white 
dog  in  the  street  below  —  I  knew  the  dog  at 
once.  Sir,  though  he  is  disguised  by  restoration 
to  his  natural  coat,  and  his  hair  is  as  long  as  a 
Peruvian  lama's.  'Tis  Sir  Isaac,'  said  I  to  my- 
self; and  behind  Sir  Isaac  I  saw  Chapman,  so  to 
call  him,  carrying  a  basket  with  peddler's  wares, 
and,  to  my  surprise.  Old  Jessop,  who  is  a  formal 
man,  with  a  great  deal  of  reserve  and  dignity, 
pompous  indeed  (but  don't  let  that  go  farther), 
talking  to  Chapman  quite  affably,  and  actually 
buying  something  out  of  the  basket.  Presently 
Chapman  went  away,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight. 
Jessop  comes  into  the  reading-room.  '  I  saw 
you,'  said  I,  'talking  to  an  old  fellow  with  a 
French  dog.'  'Such  a  good  old  fellow,'  said 
Jessop ;  '  has  a  way  about  him  that  gets  into 
your  very  heart  while  he  is  talking.  I  should 
like  to  make  you  acquainted  with  him.'  '  Thank 
you  for  nothing,'  said  I;  'I  should  be — taken 


in.'  '  Never  fear,'  says  Jessop,  '  he  would  not 
take  in  a  fly — the  simplest  creature.'  I  own  I 
chuckled  at  that,  Mr.  George.  'And  does  he 
live  here,'  said  I,  '  or  is  he  merely  a  wandering 
peddler  ?'  Then  Jessop  told  me  that  he  had  seen 
him  for  the  first  time  two  or  three  weeks  aero, 
and  accosted  him  rudely,  looking  on  him  as  a 
mere  tramp ;  but  Chapman  answered  so  well, 
and  showed  so  many  pretty  things  in  his  basket, 
that  Jessop  soon  found  himself  buying  a  pair  of 
habit-cuffs  for  Anna  Maria,  and  in  the  course 
of  talk  it  came  out,  I  suppose  by  a  sign,  that 
Chapman  was  a  freemason,  and  Jessop  is  an  en- 
thusiast in  that  sort  of  nonsense,  master  of  a 
lodge  or  something,  and  that  was  a  new  attrac- 
tion. In  short,  Jessop  took  a  great  fancy  to 
him,  patronized  him,  promised  him  protection, 
and  actually  recommended  him  to  a  lodging  in 
the  cottage  of  an  old  widow  who  lives  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  and  had  once  been  a  nurse 
in  the  Jessop  family.  And  what  do  you  think 
Jessop  had  just  bought  of  this  simple  creature? 
A  pair  of  worsted  mittens  as  a  present  for  me ; 
and  what  is  more,  I  have  got  them  on  at  this 
moment — look!  neat,  I  think,  and  monstrous 
warm.  Now,  I  have  hitherto  kept  my  own  coun- 
sel. I  have  not  said  to  Jessop,  '  Beware — that 
is  the  man  who  took  me  in.'  But  this  conceal- 
ment is  a  little  on  my  conscience.  On  the  one 
hand,  it  seems  very  cruel,  even  if  the  man  did 
once  commit  a  crime,  in  spite  of  your  charita- 
ble convictions  to  the  contrary,  that  I  should  bo 
blabbing  out  his  disgrace,  and  destroying  perhaps 
his  livelihood.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  should 
still  be  really  a  rogue,  a  robber,  perhaps  danger- 
ous, ought  I — ought  I — in  sliort — you  are  a  cler- 
gyman and  a  fine  scholar,  Sir— what  ought  I  to 
do?" 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hartopp,  do  not  vex  yourself 
with  this  very  honorable  dilemma  of  conscience. 
Let  me  only  find  my  poor  old  friend,  my  bene- 
factor I  may  call  him,  and  I  hope  to  persuade 
him,  if  not  to  return  to  the  home  that  waits 
him,  at  least  to  be  my  guest,  or  put  himself  un- 
der my  care.  Do  you  know  the  name  of  the 
widow  with  whom  he  lodges  ?" 

"  Yes — Halse ;  and  I  know  the  town  well 
enough  to  conduct  you,  if  not  to  the  house  it- 
self, still  to  its  immediate  neighborhood.  Pray 
allow  me  to  accompany  you ;  I  should  like  it 
very  much — for,  though  }"ou  may  not  think  it, 
from  the  light  way  I  have  been  talking  of  Chap- 
man, I  never  was  so  interested  in  any  man, 
never  so  charmed  by  any  man ;  and  it  has  often 
haunted  me  at  night,  thinking  that  I  behaved 
too  harshly  to  him,  and  that  he  was  about  on  the 
wide  world,  an  outcast,  depi'ived  of  his  little 
girl,  whom  he  had  trusted  to  me.  And  I  sliould 
have  run  after  him  yesterday,  or  called  on  him 
this  morning,  and  said  'Let  me  serve  you,'  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  severity  with  which  he  and 
his  son  were  spoken  of,  and  I  myself  rebuked 
for  mentioning  their  very  names,  by  a  man  whose 
opinion  I,  and  indeed  all  the  country,  must  hold 
in  the  higliest  respect — a  man  of  the  finest  honor, 
the  weightiest  character — I  mean  Guy  Darrell, 
the  great  Darrell." 

George  Morley  sighed.  "  I  believe  Darrell 
knows  nothing  of  the  elder  Losely,  and  is  pre- 
judiced against  him  by  the  misdeeds  of  the 
younger,  to  whose  care  j'ou  (and  I  can  not  blame 
you,  for  I  also  was  instrumental  to  the  same 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


2GI 


transfer,  which  might  have  proved  calamitously 
fatal)  surrendered  the  poor  motherless  girl." 

"  She  is  not  with  her  grandfather  now?  She 
lives  still,  I  hope  ?     She  was  very  delicate." 

"  She  lives — she  is  safe.     Ha — take  care !" 

These  last  words  were  spoken  as  a  horseman, 
riding  fast  along  the  road  toward  the  bridge 
that  was  now  close  at  hand,  came,without  warn- 
ing or  heed,  so  close  upon  our  two  ]jedestrians, 
that  George  Morley  had  but  just  time  to  pluck 
Hartopp  aside  from  the  horse's  hoofs. 

'■An  impudent,  careless,  rutHanly  fellow,  in- 
deed!" said  the  mild  Hartopp,  indignantly,  as 
he  brushed  from  his  sleeve  the  splash  of  dirt 
which  the  horseman  bequeathed  to  it.  "  He 
must  be  drunk !" 

The  rider,  gaining  the  bridge,  was  there  de- 
tained at  the  toll-bar  by  some  carts  and  wag- 
ons, and  the  two  gentlemen  passed  him  on  the 
bridge,  looking  with  some  attention  at  his 
gloomy,  unobservant  countenance,  and  the  pow- 
erful frame  on  which,  despite  coarse  garments 
and  the  change  wrought  by  years  of  intemperate 
excess,  was  still  visible  the  trace  of  that  felici- 
tous symmetry  once  so  admirably  combining 
Herculean  strength  with  elastic  elegance.  En- 
tering the  town,  the  rider  turned  into  the  yard 
of  the  nearest  inn.  George  Morley  and  Har- 
topp, followed  at  a  little  distance  by  Morley's 
traveling  companion.  Merle,  passed  on  toward 
the  other  extremity  of  the  town,  and  after  one 
or  tv,-o  inquiries  for  "Widow  Halse,  Prospect 
Row,"  they  came  to  a  few  detached  cottages, 
very  prettily  situated  on  a  gentle  hill,  command- 
ing in  front  the  roofs  of  the  city  and  the  gleam- 
ing windows  of  the  great  cathedral,  with  some- 
what large  gardens  in  the  rear.  i\Irs.  Halse's 
dwelling  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  tliis  Rov.-. 
The  house,  however,  was  shut  up  ;  and  a  ViO- 
man,  wlio  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  neigh- 
boring cottage,  plaiting  straw,  informed  the  vis- 
itors that  Mrs.  Halse  was  gone  out  "charing" 
for  the  day,  and  that  her  lodger,  who  had  his 
own  kej-,  seldom  returned  before  dark,  but  that 
at  that  hour  he  was  pretty  sure  to  be  found  in 
the  Corn-market  or  the  streets  in  its  vicinity, 
and  oftered  to  send  her  little  boy  to  discover 
and  "  fetch"  him.  George  consulted  apart  with 
Merle,  and  decided  on  dispatching  the  cobbler, 
with  the  boy  for  his  guide,  in  quest  of  the  ped- 
dler. Merle  being  of  course  instructed  not  to  let 
out  by  whom  he  was  accompanied,  lest  Waife, 
in  his  obstinacy,  should  rather  abscond  than  en- 
counter the  friends  from  whom  he  had  fled. 
Merle,  and  a  curly-headed  urchin,  who  seemed 
delighted  at  the  idea  of  hunting  up  Sir  Isaac  and 
Sir  Isaac's  master,  set  forth  and  were  soon  out 
of  sight.  Hartopp  and  George  opened  the  little 
garden-gate,  and  strolled  into  the  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  cottage,  to  seat  themselves  patiently 
on  a  bench  beneath  an  old  apple-tree.  Here 
they  waited  and  conversed  some  minutes,  till 
George  observed  that  one  of  the  casements  on 
that  side  of  the  cottage  was  left  open,  and,  in- 
voluntarily rising,  he  looked  in  ;  surveying  with 
interest  the  room,  which,  he  felt  sure  at  the 
first  glance,  must  be  that  occupied  by  his  self- 
exiled  friend :  a  neat,  pleasant  little  room — a 
bull-finch  in  a  wicker  cage  on  a  ledge  within  the 
casement — a  flower-pot  beside  it.  Doubtless  the 
window,  which  faced  tlie  southern  sun,  had  been 
left  open  by  the  kind  old  man  in  order  to  cheer 


the  bird  and  to  gladden  the  plant.  Waife's  well- 
known  pipe,  and  a  tobacco-pouch  worked  for 
him  by  Sophy's  fairy  fingers,  lay  on  a  table  near 
the  fire-place,  between  casement  and  door  ;  and 
George  saw  with  emotion  the  Bible  which  he 
himself  had  given  to  the  wanderer  lying  also 
on  the  table,  with  the  magnifying- glass  which 
Waife  had  of  late  been  obliged  to  emplov  in 
reading.  Waife's  habitual  neatness  was  visible 
in  the  aspect  of  the  room.  To  George  it  was 
evident  that  the  very  chairs  had  been  arranged 
by  his  hand  ;  that  his  hand  had  courteously  given 
that  fresh  coat  of  varnish  to  the  wretched  por- 
trait of  a  man  in  blue  coat  and  buflF  waistcoat, 
representing,  no  doubt,  the  lamented  spouse  of 
the  hospitable  widow.  George  beckoned  to  Har- 
topp to  come  also  and  look  within ;  and  as  the 
worthy  trader  jieeped  over  his  shoulder,  the 
clergyman  said,  whisperingly,  "  Is  there  not 
something  about  a  man's  home  which  attests 
his  character? — No  'pleading  guilty'  here!" 

Hartojjp  was  about  to  answer,  when  they 
heard  the  key  turn  sharply  in  the  outer  door, 
and  had  scarcely  time  to  draw  somewhat  back 
from  the  casement  when  Waife  came  hurriedly 
into  the  room,  followed,  not  by  IMerle,  but  by 
the  tall  rough-looking  horseman  whom  they  had 
encountered  on  the  road.  "  Thank  Heaven," 
cried  Waife,  sinking  on  a  chair,  "out  of  sight, 
out  of  hearing  now  !  Now  you  may  speak  ;  now 
I  can  listen !  Oh,  wretched  S9n  of  my  lost  an- 
gel, whom  I  so  vainly  sought  to  save  by  the  sac- 
rifice of  all  my  claims  to  the  respect  of  men,  for 
what  purpose  do  you  seek  me  ?  I  have  nothing 
left  that  you  can  take  away !  Is  it  the  child 
again?  See  —  see  —  look  round  —  search  the 
house  if  you  will — she  is  not  here." 

"  Bear  with  me,  if  you  can.  Sir,"  said  Jasper, 
in  tones  that  were  almost  meek  ;  "  you,  at  least, 
can  say  nothing  that  I  will  not  bear.  But  I  am 
in  my  right  when  I  ask  you  to  tell  me,  without 
equivocation  or  reserve,  if  Sophy,  though  not 
actually  within  these  walls,  be  near  you,  in  this 
town  or  its  neighborhood  ? — in  short,  still  under 
your  protection  ?" 

"Not  in  this  town — not  near  it — not  under 
ray  protection  ;  I  swear." 

"Do  not  swear,  father;  I  have  no  belief  in 
other  men's  oaths.  I  believe  your  simple  word. 
Now  comes  my  second  question — remember  I 
am  still  strictly  in  my  right — where  is  she? — 
and  under  whose  care?" 

"I  will  not  say.  One  reason  why  I  have 
abandoned  the  very  air  she  breathes,  was,  that 
you  might  not  trace  her  in  tracing  me.  But 
she  is  out  of  your  power  again  to  kidnap  and  to 
sell.  You  might  molest,  harass,  shame  her,  by 
proclaiming  yourself  her  father;  but  regain  her 
into  your  keeping,  cast  her  to  infamy  and  vice 
— never,  never!  She  is  now  with  no  powerless, 
miserable  convict,  for  whom  Law  has  no  respect. 
She  is  now  no  helpless  infant,  without  a  choice, 
without  a  will.  She  is  safe  from  all  save  the 
wanton  unprofitable  eflrort  to  disgrace  her.  Oh, 
Jasper,  Jasper,  be  human — she  is  so  delicate  of 
frame — she  is  so  sensitive  to  reproach,  so  trem- 
ulously alive  to  honor — I — /  am  not  fit  to  be 
near  her  now.  I  have  beea  a  tricksome,  sliifty 
vagrant,  and  innocent  though  I  be,  the  felon's 
brand  is  on  me !  But  you,  you  too,  who  never 
loved  her,  who  can  not  miss  her,  whose  heart  is 
not  breaking  at  her  loss  as  mine  is  now — von. 


262 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


you — to  rise  up  from  the  reeking  pesthouse  in 
which  you  have  dwelt  by  choice,  and  say,  '  De- 
scend from  God's  day  with  me' — Jasper,  Jasper, 
you  will  not — you  can  not ;  it  would  be  the  ma- 
lignity of  a  devil !" 

"Father,  hold  I"  cried  Jasper,  UTithing  and 
livid ;  "  I  owe  to  you  more  than  I  do  to  that 
thing  of  pink  and  white.  I  know  better  than 
you  the  trumpery  of  all  those  waxen  dolls  of 
whom  dupes  make  idols.  At  each  turn  of  the 
street  you  may  find  them  in  basketfuls — blue- 
eyed  or  black-eyed,  just  the  same  worthless  frip- 
pery or  senseless  toys ;  but  every  man  dandling 
his  own  doll,  whether  he  call  it  sweet-heart  or 
daughter,  makes  the  same  puling  boast  that  he 
has  an  angel  of  purity  in  his  puppet  of  wax. 
Nay,  hear  me  I  to  that  girl  I  owe  nothing.  You 
know  what  I  owe  to  you.  You  bid  me  not  seek 
her,  and  say,  '  I  am  your  father  !'  Do  you  think 
it  does  not  misbecome  me  more,  and  can  it 
wound  you  less,  when  I  come  to  you,  and  re- 
mind you  that  I  am  your  son !" 

"Jasper!"  foltered  the  old  man,  turning  his 
face  aside,  for  the  touch  of  feeling  toward  him- 
self, contrasting  the  cynicism  with  which  Jas- 
per spoke  of  other  ties  not  less  sacred,  took  the 
father  by  surprise. 

"And,"  continued  Jasper,  "remembering  how 
you  once  loved  me — with  what  self-sacrifice  you 
proved  that  love,  it  is  mth  a  bitter  grudge  against 
that  girl  that  I  see  her  thus  take  that  place  in 
your  affection  which  was  mine — and  you  so  in- 
dignant against  me  if  I  even  presume  to  approach 
her.  What !  I  have  the  malignity  of  a  devil  be- 
cause I  would  not  quietly  lie  down  in  yonder 
kennels  to  starve,  or  sink  into  the  grade  of  those 
whom  your  daintier  thief  disdains ;  spies  into 
unguarded  areas,  or  cowardly  skulkers  by  blind 
walls  ;  while  in  the  paltry  girl,  who  j-ou  say  is 
so  well  provided  for,  I  see  the  last  and  sole  re- 
source which  may  prevent  you  from  being  still 
more  degraded,  still  more  afflicted  by  your  son." 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  Even  if  Sophy  were 
in  your  power,  Darrell  would  not  be  more  dis- 
posed to  enrich  or  relieve  you.  He  will  never 
believe  your  tale,  nor  deign  even  to  look  into 
its  proofs." 

"  He  might  at  last,"  said  Jasper,  evasively. 
"  Surely  with  all  that  wealth,  no  nearer  heir 
than  a  remote  kinsman  in  the  son  of  a  beggared 
spendthrift  by  a  linen-draper's  daughter  —  he 
should  need  a  grandchild  more  than  you  do. 
Yet  the  proofs  you  speak  of  convinced  yourself; 
you  believe  my  tale." 

"  Believe — yes,  for  that  belief  was  every  thing 
in  the  world  to  me!  Ah,  remember  how  joy- 
ously, when  my  term  of  sentence  expired,  I 
hastened  to  seek  you  at  Paris,  deceived  by  the 
rare  letters  with  which  you  had  deigned  to  cheer 
me — fondly  dreaming  that,  in  expiating  your 
crime,  I  should  have  my  reward  in  your  re- 
demption— should  live  to  see  you  honored,  hon- 
est, good — live  to  think  your  mother  watched  us 
from  heaven  with  a  smile  on  both — and  that  we 
should  both  join  her  at  last — you  purified  by  ray 
atonement !  Oh,  and  when  I  saw  you  so  sunken, 
so  hardened,  exulting  in  vice  as  in  a  glory — 
bravo  and  partner  in  a  gambler's  hell — or,  worse 
still,  living  on  the  plunder  of  miserable  women, 
even  the  almsman  of  that  vile  Desmarets — my 
son,  my  son,  my  lost  Lizzy's  son  blotted  out  of 
my  world  forever! — then,  then  I  should  have 


died  if  you  had  not  said,  boasting  of  the  lie 
which  had  wrung  the  gold  from  Darrell,  '  But 
the  child  lives  still.'  Believed  you — oh  yes, 
yes ! — for  in  that  belief  something  was  still  left 
to  me  to  cherish,  to  love,  to  live  for  I" 

Here  the  old  man's  hurried  voice  died  away 
in  a  passionate  sob;  and  the  direful  son,  all 
reprobate  though  he  was,  slid  from  his  chair, 
and  bowed  himself  at  his  father's  knee,  cover- 
ing his  face  with  fell  hands  that  trembled. 
"Sir,  Sir,"  he  said,  in  broken,  reverential  ac- 
cents, "  do  not  let  me  see  you  weep.  You  can 
not  believe  me,  but  I  say  solemnly  that,  if  there 
be  in  me  a  single  remnant  of  affection  for  any 
human  being,  it  is  for  you.  Vv^hen  I  cpnsented 
to  leave  you  to  bear  the  sentence  which  should 
have  fallen  on  myself,  sure  I  am  that  I  was  less 
basely  selfish  than  absurdly  vain.  I  fancied  my- 
self so  born  to  good  fortune  I — so  formed  to  cap- 
tivate some  rich  girl ! — and  that  you  would  re- 
turn to  share  wealth  with  me ;  that  the  evening 
of  your  days  would  be  happy ;  that  you  would 
be  repaid  by  my  s]  jlendor  for  your  own  disgrace ! 
And  when  I  did  marry,  and  did  ultimately  get 
from  the  father-in-law  who  spurned  me  the 
capital  of  his  daughter's  fortune,  pitifully  small 
though  it  was  compared  to  my  expectations,  my 
first  idea  was  to  send  half  of  that  sum  to  you. 
But — but — I  was  living  with  those  who  thought 
nothing  so  silly  as  a  good  intention — nothing  so 
bad  as  a  good  action.  That  mocking  she-devil, 
Gabrielle,  too !  Then  the  witch's  spell  of  that 
d — d  green  table !  Luck  against  one — wait ! 
double  the  capital  ere  you  send  the  half.  Luck 
with  one — how  balk  the  tide?  how  fritter  the 
capital  just  at  the  turn  of  doubling  ?  Soon  it 
grew  irksome  even  to  think  of  you ;  yet  still, 
when  I  did,  I  said,  '  Life  is  long ;  I  shall  win 
riches ;  he  shall  share  them  some  day  or  oth- 
er!'— Basta,  basta! — what  idle  twaddle  or  hol- 
low brag  all  this  must  seem  to  you !" 

"No,"  said  Waife,  feebly — and  his  hand 
drooped  till  it  touched  Jasper's  bended  shoul- 
der, but,  at  the  touch,  recoiled  as  with  an  elec- 
tric spasm. 

"So,  as  you  say,  you  found  me  at  Paris.  I 
told  you  where  I  had  placed  the  child,  not  con- 
ceiving that  Arabella  would  part  with  her,  or 
you  desire  to  hamper  yourself  with  an  encum- 
brance— nay,  I  took  for  granted  that  you  would 
find  a  home,  as  before,  with  some  old  friend  or 
country  cousin  ;  but  fancying  that  your  occa- 
sional visits  to  her  might  comfort  you,  since  it 
seemed  to  please  you  so  much  when  I  said  she 
lived.  Thus  we  parted — you,  it  seems, 'only 
anxious  to  save  that  child  from  ever  falling  into 
my  hands  or  those  of  Gabrielle  Desmarets;  I 
hastening  to  forget  all  but  the  riotous  life  round 
me,  till — " 

"Till  you  came  back  to  England  to  rob  from 
me  the  smile  of  the  only  face  that  I  knew  would 
never  wear  contempt,  and  to  tell  the  good  man 
with  whom  I  thought  she  had  so  safe  a  shelter 
that  I  was  a  convicted  robber,  by  whose  very 
love  her  infancy  was  sullied.'  Oh  Jasper!  Jas- 
per !"' 

"I  never  said  that — never  thought  of  saying 
it.  Arabella  Crane  did  so,  with  the  reckless 
woman-will,  to  gain  her  object.  But  I  did  take 
the  child  from  you.  Why  ?  Partly  because  I 
needed  money  s'o  much  that  I  would  have  sold 
a  Itecatomb  of  children  for  half  what  I  was  of- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


263 


fered  to  bind  the  girl  to  a  service  that  could  not 
be  very  dreadful,  since  yourself  had  first  placed 
her  there — and  partly  because  you  had  shrunk, 
it  seems,  from  appealing  to  old  friends  ;  you 
were  living,  like  myself,  from  hand  to  moutJi ; 
what  could  that  child  be  to  you  but  a  drag  and 
a  bother?" 

"And  you  will  tell  me,  I  suppose,"  said 
Waife,  with  an  incredulous  bitter  irony,  that 
seemed  to  wither  himself  in  venting  it,  so  did 
his  whole  fiame  recoil  and  shrink — "you  will 
tell  me  that  it  was  from  tlie  same  considerate 
tenderness  that  you  would  have  again  filched 
her  from  me  some  months  later,  to  place  her 
with  that  '  she-devil'  who  was  once  more  by 
your  side,  to  be  reared  and  sold  to — oh  horror ! 
— horror!  —  unimaginable  horror! — that  pure, 
helpless  infant ! — you,  armed  with  the  name  of 
father! — you,  strong  in  that  mighty  form  of 
man !" 

"  What  do  you  mean ?  Oh,  I  remember  now ! 
When  Gabrielle  was  in  Loudon,  and  I  had  seen 
you  on  the  Bridge.  Who  could  have  told  you 
that  I  meant  to  get  the  child  from  you  at  that 
time?" 

Waife  was  silent.  He  could  not  betray  Ara- 
bella Crane;  and  Jasper  looked  perplexed  and 
thoughtful.  Then  gradually  the  dreadful  nature 
of  his  father's  accusing  word  seemed  to  become 
more  clear  to  him ;  and  he  cried,  with  a  fierce 
start  and  a  swarthy  flush,  "But  whoever  told 
you  that  I  harbored  the  design  that  it  whitens 
your  lip  to  hint  at,  lied,  and  foully.  Harkye, 
Sir !  many  years  ago  Gabrielle  had  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Darrell,  under  another  name, 
as  Matilda's  friend  (long  story  now — not  worth 
telling) ;  he  had  never,  I  believe,  discovered 
the  imposture.  Just  at  the  time  you  refer  to, 
I  heard  that  Darrell  had  been  to  France,  inquir- 
ing himself  into  facts  connected  with  my  former 
story  that  Matilda's  child  was  dead.  That  very 
inquiry  seemed  to  show  that  he  had  not  been  so 
incredulous  of  my  assertions  of  Sophy's  claims 
on  him  as  he  had  aftected  to  be  when  I  urged 
them.  He  then  went  on  into  Italy.  Talking 
this  over  with  Gabrielle,  she  suggested  that,  if 
the  child  could  be  got  into  her  possession,  she 
would  go  with  her  in  search  of  Darrell,  resum- 
ing the  name  in  which  she  had  before  known 
him — resuming  the  title  and  privilege  of  Ma- 
tilda's friend.  In  that  character  he  might  list- 
en to  her  when  he  would  not  to  me.  She  might 
confirm  my  statement — melt  his  heart — coax 
him  into  terms.  She  was  the  cleverest  creat- 
ure! I  should  have  sold  Sophy,  it  is  true.  For 
what  ?  A  provision  to  place  me  above  want  and 
crime.  Sold  her  to  whom?  To  tlie  man  who 
would  see  in  her  his  daughter's  child — rear  her 
to  inherit  his  wealth — guard  her  as  his  own  hon- 
or. What!  was  this  the  design  that  so  shocks 
3'ou?  Basta — basta!  Again,  I  say  Enough! 
I  never  thought  I  should  be  so  soft  as  to  mutter 
excuses  for  what  I  have  done.  And  if  I  do  so 
now,  the  words  seem  forced  from  me  against 
my  will — forced  from  me,  as  if  in  seeing  you  I 
was  again  but  a  wild,  lawless,  willful  boy,  who 
grieved  to  see  you  saddened  by  his  faults, 
though  he  forgot  his  grief  the  moment  you  were 
out  of  sight." 

"  Oh  Jasper,"  cried  Waife,  now  fairly  plac- 
ing his  hand  on  Jasper's  guilty  head,  and  fixing 
his  bright  soft  eye,  swimming  in  teai-s,  on  that 


downcast,  gloomy  face,  "j'ou  repent!  you  re- 
pent !  Yes  ;  call  back  your  boyhood  !  call  it 
back !  Let  it  stand  before  you,  now,  visible, 
palpable !  Lo !  I  see  it !  Do  not  you  ?  Fear- 
less, joyous  Image!  Wild,  lawless,  willful,  as 
you  say !  Wild  from  exuberant  life ;  lawless  as 
a  bird  is  free,  because  air  is  boundless  to  un- 
tried, exulting  wings ;  w'illful  from  the  ease  with 
which  the  bravery  and  beauty  of  Nature's  ra- 
diant Darling  forced  M-ay  for  each  jocund  whim 
through  our  yielding  hearts !  Silence  !  It  is 
there!  I  see  it,  as  I  saw  it  rise  in  the  empty 
air  when  guilt  and  ignominy  first  darkened 
round  you ;  and  my  heart  cried  aloud,  '  Not  on 
him,  not  on  him — not  on  that  glorious  shape  of 
hope  and  promise — on  me,  whose  life,  useless 
hitherto,  has  lost  all  promise  now — on  me  let 
fall  the  shame  !'  And  my  lips  obeyed  my  heart, 
and  I  said,  '  Let  the  laws'  will  be  done — I  am 
the  guilty  man  !'  Cruel — cruel  one!  Was  that 
sunny  Boyhood  then  so  long  departed  from  you  ? 
On  the  verge  of  youth,  and  such  maturity  ia 
craft  and  fraud — that  when  you  stole  into  my 
room  that  dark  M'inter  eve,  threw  yourself  at  my 
feet,  spoke  but  of  thoughtless  debts,  and  the 
fears  that  you  should  be  thrust  from  an  indus- 
trious honest  calling,  and  I — I  said — '  No,  no ; 
fear  not ;  the  head  of  your  firm  likes  you ;  he 
has  written  to  me;  I  am  trying  already  to  raise 
the  money  you  need ;  it  shall  be  raised,  no  mat- 
ter what  it  cost  me  ;  you  shall  be  saved ;  my 
Lizzy's  son  shall  never  know  the  soil  of  a  pris- 
on ;  shun  temptation  henceforth ;  be  but  honest, 
and  I  shall  be  repaid !'  What !  even  then  you 
you  were  coldlj'  meditating  the  crime  that  will 
make  my  very  grave  dishonored!" 

"Meditating — not  so!  How  could  I?  Not 
till  after  what  had  thus  passed  between  us, 
when  you  spoke  with  such  indulgent  kindness, 
did  I  even  know  that  I  might  more  than  save 
myself — by  moneys — not  raised  at  risk  and  loss 
to  you !  Remember,  you  had  left  me  in  the 
inner  room,  while  you  went  forth  to  speak  with 
Gunston.  There  I  overheard  him  talk  of  notes 
he  had  never  counted,  and  might  never  miss ; 
describe  the  very  place  where  they  were  kept ; 
and  then  the  idea  came  to  me  irresistibly  ;  '  bet- 
ter rob  him  than  despoil  my  own  generous  fa- 
ther.' Sir,  I  am  not  pretending  to  be  better 
than  I  was.  I  was  not  quite  the  novice  you 
supposed.  Coveting  pleasures  or  shows  not 
w^ithin  my  reach,  I  had  shrunk  from  draining 
you  to  supply  the  means  ;  I  had  not  had  the 
same  forbearance  for  tlie  superfluous  wealth  of 
others.  I  had  learned  with  what  simple  tools 
old  locks  may  ny  open  ;  and  none  had  ever  sus- 
pected me,  so  I  had  no  fear  of  danger,  small 
need  of  premeditation ;  a  nail  on  your  mantle- 
j)iece,  the  cloven  end  of  the  hammer  lying  be- 
side, to  crook  it  when  hot  from  the  fire  that 
blazed  before  me !  I  say  this  to  show  you  that 
I  did  not  come  provided ;  nothing  was  planned 
beforehand ;  all  was  the  project  and  work  of  the 
moment.  Such  was  my  haste,  I  burned  myself 
to  the  bone  with  the  red  iron — feeling  no  pain, 
or  rather,  at  that  age,  bearing  all  pain  without 
wincing.  Before  Gunston  left  you  my  whole 
plan  was  then  arranged — my  sole  instrument 
fashioned.  You  groan.  But  how  could  I  fancy 
that  there  would  be  detection?  How  imagine 
that,  even  if  moneys  never  counted  icere  missed, 
suspicion  could  fall  on  you — a  better  gentleman 


2G4 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


than  he  whom  you  served  ?  And  had  it  not 
been  for  that  accursed  cloak  which  you  so  fond- 
ly wrapped  round  me,  when  I  set  off  to  catch 

the  night-train  back  to ;  if  it  had  not  been, 

I  say,  for  that  cloak,  there  could  have  been  no 
evidence  to  criminate  either  you  or  me — except 
that  unlucky  £5  note,  which  I  pressed  on  you 

when  we  met  at ,  where  I  was  to  hide  till 

you  had  settled  with  my  duns.  And  why  did 
I  press  it  on  you  ? — because  you  had  asked  me 
if  I  had  wherewithal  about  me  on  which  to  live 
meanwhile ;  and  I,  to  save  you  from  emptying 
your  own  purse,  said,  'Yes;'  showed  you  some 
gold,  and  pressed  on  you  the  bank-note,  which 
I  said  I  could  not  want — to  go,  in  small  part, 
toward  my  debts ;  it  was  a  childish,  inconsist- 
ent wish  to  please  you  ;  and  you  seemed  so 
pleased  to  take  it  as  a  proof  that  I  cared  for 
you." 

"For  me! — no,  no;  for  honor — for  honor — 
for  honor!  I  thought  you  cared  for  honor  ;  and 
the  proof  of  that  care  was,  thrusting  into  these 
credulous  hands  the  share  of  your  midnight 
plunder!" 

"  Sir,"  resumed  Jasper,  persisting  in  the  same 
startling  combination  of  feeling,  gentler  and 
more  reverential  than  could  have  been  supposed 
to  linger  in  his  breast,  and  of  the  moral  obtuse- 
ness  that  could  not,  save  by  vanishing  glimpses, 
distinguish  between  crime  and  its  consequences 
— between  dishonor  and  detection — "  Sir,  I  de- 
clare that  I  never  conceived  that  I  was  exposing 
you  to  danger;  nay,  I  meant,  out  of  the  money 
I  had  taken,  to  replace  to  you  what  you  were 
about  to  raise,  as  soon  as  I  could  invent  some 
plausi!)le  story  of  having  earned  it  honestly. 
Stupid  notions  and  clumsy  schemes,  as  I  now 
look  back  on  them;  but,  as  you  say,  I  had  not 
long  left  boyhood,  and  fancying  myself  deep 
and  knowing,  was  raw  in  the  craft  I  had  prac- 
ticed.    Busta!  basta!  basfa!'' 

Jasper,  who  had  risen  from  his  knees  while 
speaking,  here  starriped  heavily  on  the  floor,  as 
if  with  anger  at  the  heart-stricl;en  aspect  of  his 
silenced  father ;  and  continued  with  a  voice  that 
seemed  struggling  to  regain  its  old  imperious, 
rollicking,  burly  swell. 

"  What  is  done  can  not  be  undone.  Fling  it 
aside.  Sir — look  to  the  future ;  you  with  your 
peddler's  pack,  I  with  my  empty  pockets !  What 
can  save  you  from  the  workhouse — me  from  the 
hulks  or  gibbet  ?  I  know  not  unless  the  persons 
sheltering  that  girl  will  buy  me  off  by  some  pro- 
vision which  may  be  shared  between  us.  Tell 
me,  then,  where  she  is  ;  leave  me  to  deal  in  the 
business  as  I  best  may.  Pooh !  ^vhy  so  scared  ? 
I  will  neither  terrify  nor  kidnap  her.  I  will 
shuffle  off  the  crust  of  blackguard  that  has 
hardened  round  me.  I  will  be  sleek  and 
smooth,  as  if  I  were  still  the  exquisite  Lothario 
— copied  by  would-be  rutHcr;*,  and  spoiled  by 
willing  beauties.  Oh,  I  can  still  play  the  gen- 
tleman, at  least  for  an  hour  or  two,  if  it  be  worth 
my  while.  Come,  Sir,  come ;  trust  me ;  out 
with  the  secret  of  this  hidden  maiden,  whose 
interests  should  surely  weigh  not  more  with  3-ou 
than  those  of  a  starving  son.  What,  you  will 
not  ?  Be  it  so.  I  suspect  that  I  know  where 
to  look  for  her — on  what  noble  thresholds  to  set 
my  daring  foot;  what  fair  lady,  mindful  of  for- 
mer days — of  girlish  friendship — of  virgin  love 
— wraps  in  compassionate  luxury  Guy  Darrell's 


rejected  heiress !  Ah,  your  looks  tell  me  that 
I  am  hot  on  the  scent.  That  fair  lady  I  knew 
of  old  ;  she  is  rich — I  helped  to  make  her  so. 
She  owes  me  something.  I  will  call  and  re- 
mind her  of  it.  And — tut.  Sir,  tut — you  shall 
not  go  to  the  workhouse,  nor  I  to  the  hulks." 

Here  the  old  man,  hitherto  seated,  rose — 
slow'ly,  with  feebleness  and  effort — till  he  gained 
his  full  height ;  then  age,  infirmity,  and  weak- 
ness seemed  to  vanish.  In  the  erect  head,  the 
broad  massive  chest,  in  the  whole  presence  there 
was  dignity — there  was  power. 

"  Hark  to  me,  unhappy  reprobate,  and  heed 
me  well !  To  save  that  child  from  the  breath 
of  disgiuice — to  place  her  in  what  you  yourself 
assured  me  were  her  rights  amidst  those  in 
whose  dwellings  I  lost  the  privilege  to  dwell 
when  I  took  to  myself  your  awful'  burden — I 
thought  to  resign  her  charge  forever  in  this 
world.  Think  not  that  I  will  fly  her  now,  when 
you  invade.  No — since  my  prayers  will  not 
move  you — since  my  sacrifice  to  you  has  been 
so  fruitless — since  my  absence  from  herself  does 
not  attain  its  end ;  there,  where  you  find  her, 
shall  you  again  meet  me!  And  if  there  we 
meet,  and  j-ou  come  with  the  intent  to  destroy 
her  peace  and  blast  her  fortune,  then  I,  Will- 
iam Losely,  am  no  more  the  felon.  In  the  face 
of  day  I  will  proclaim  the  truth,  and  say,  '  Rob- 
ber, change  place  in  earth's  scorn  with  me ; 
stand  in  the  dock,  where  thy  fat'aer  stood  in 
vain  to  save  thee  !'  " 

"Bah,  Sir— too  late  now;  who  would  listen 
to  you?" 

"All  who  have  once  known  me — all  will  lis- 
ten. Friends  of  power  and  station  will  take  up 
my  cause.  There  will  be  fresh  inquiry  into  facts 
that  I  held  back — evidence  that,  in  ])leading 
guilty,  I  suppressed — ungrateful  one — to  ward 
away  suspicion  from  you." 

"  Say  what  you  will,"  said  Jasper,  swaying 
his  massive  form  to  and  fro,  with  a  rolling  ges- 
ture which  spoke  of  cold  defiance,  "I  am  no 
hypocrite  in  fair  repute  whom  such  threats  would 
frighten.  If  you  choose  to  thwart  me  in  what  I 
always  held  my  last  resource  for  meat  and  drink, 
I  must  stand  in  the  dock  even,  perhaps,  on  a 
heavier  charge  than  one  so  stale.  Each  for  him- 
self; do  your  worst— what  does  it  matter  r" 

"  What  does  it  matter  that  a  father  should 
accuse  his  son  !  No,  no — son,  son,  son — this 
nuist  not  be ! — Let  it  not  be ! — let  me  complete 
my  martyrdom  !  I  ask  no  reversal  of  man's  de- 
cree, except  before  the  Divine  Tribunal.  Jas- 
per, Jasjier — child  of  my  love,  spare  the  sole 
thing  left  to  fill  up  the  chasms  in  the  heart  that 
you  laid  waste.  Speak  not  of  starving,  or  of 
fresh  crime.     Stay — share  this  refuge !     I  ■wili, 

AVOKK  FOR  BOTH  !" 

Once  more,  and  this  time  thoroughly,  Jasper's 
hideous  levity  and  coarse  bravado  gave  w.n  be- 
fore the  lingering  human  sentiment  knitting 
him  back  to  childhood,  which  the  sight  and 
voice  of  his  injured  father  had  called  forth  with 
spasms  and  throes,  as  a  seer  calls  the  long-bur- 
ied from  a  grave.  And  as  the  old  man  extend- 
ed his  arms  )ileadingly  townrd  him,  Jasper,  with 
a  gasping  sound— half  groan,  half  sob — sprang 
forward,  caught  both  the  hands  in  his  own 
strong  grasp,  lifted  them  to  his-  lips,  kissed 
them,  and  then,  gaining  the  door  with  a  rapid 
stride,  said,  in   hoarse   broken   tones,   "  Share 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


2CC 


vour  refuge !  no — no — I  should  break  your  heart 
downright  did  you  see  me  daily — hourly  as  I 
am  !  You  work  for  both  I — you — you  !"  His 
voice  stopped,  choked  for  a  brief  moment,  then 
hurried  on:  "As  for  that  girl — you — you — you 
are — but  no  matter,  I  will  try  to  obey  you — will 
try  to  wrestle  against  hunger,  despair,  and 
thoughts  that  wliisper  sinking  men  with  devil's 
tongues.  I  will  try — I  will  tn,' ;  if  I  succeed 
not,  kee]>  your  threat — accuse  me — give  me  np 
to  justice — clear  yourself;  but  if  you  would 
crush  me  more  than  by  the  heaviest  curse, 
never  again  speak  to  me  with  such  dreadful 
tenderness  !  Cling  not  to  me,  old  man  ;  release 
me,  I  say ;  thei-e — there— oft'.  Ah  !  I  did  not 
hurt  you?  Brute  that  I  am- — you  bless  me — 
yon — you !  And  I  dare  not  bless  again  !  Let 
me  go — let  me  go — let  me  go  !"  He  wrenched 
himself  away  from  his  father's  clasp — drowning 
with  loud  tone  his  father's  pathetic  soothings — 
out  of  the  house — down  the  hill — lost  to  sight 
in  the  shades  of  the  falling  eve. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Gentleman  Waife  does  not  forget  an  old  friend.  The  old 
friend  reconciles  Astrology  to  Prudence,  and  is  under 
the  influence  of  Benefics.  Mr.  Hartopp  hat  in  hand  to 
Gentleman  AVaife. 

Waife  fell  on  the  floor  of  his  threshold,  ex- 
claiming, sobbing,  moaning,  as  voice  itself  grad- 
ually died  away.  The  dog,  who  had  been  shut 
out  from  the  house,  and  remained  ears  erect, 
head  drooping,  close  at  the  door,  rushed  in  as 
Jasper  burst  forth.  The  two  listeners  at  the 
open  casement  now  stole  round  ;  there  was  the 
dog,  its  paw  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  trying 
to  attract  his  notice,  and  whining  low. 

Tejiderly — reverentially,  they  lift  the  poor 
martyr — evermore  cleared  in  their  eyes  from 
stain,  from  question;  the  dishonoring  brand 
transmuted  into  the  hallowing  cross !  And 
when  the  old  man  at  length  recovered  con- 
sciousness, his  head  was  pillowed  on  the  breast 
of  the  spotless,  noble  preacher;  and  the  deco- 
rous English  trader,  with  instinctive  deference 
for  repute  and  respect  for  law,  was  kneeling  by 
his  side,  clasping  his  hand;  and  as  Waife 
glanced  down,  confusedly  wondering,  Hartopp 
exclaimed,  half  sobbing,  "Forgive  me;  you 
said  I  should  repent  if  I  knew  all!  I  do're- 
pent!  I  do!  Forgive  me — I  shall  never  for- 
give myself." 

"  Have  I  been  dreaming?  Yvhat  is  all  this  ? 
You  here,  too,  Mr.  George!  But — but  there 
was  Another.  Gone  I  ah — gone — gone !  lost, 
lost !     Ha !  did  you  overhear  us  ?" 

"We  overheard  you — at  that  window!  See, 
spite  of  yourself,  Heaven  lets  your  innocence  be 
known,  and  in  that  innocence  your  sublime 
self-sacritice." 

"Hush!  you  will  never  betray  me,  either  of 
you — never  !  A  father  turn  against  his  son ! — 
horrible  I" 

Again  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  swooning. 
In  a  few  moments  more  his  mind  began  evi- 
dently to  wander  somewhat ;  and  just  as  Merle 
(who,  with  his  urchin-guide,  had  wandered 
vainly  over  the  whole  town  in  search  of  the 
peddler,  until  told  that  he  had  been  seen  in  a 
by-street,  stopped  and  accosted  by  a  tall  man  in 


a  rough  great-coat,  and  then  hurrying  off,  fol- 
lowed by  the  stranger) — came  back  to  re])ort  his 
ill  success,  Hartopp  and  George  had  led  Waife 
np  stairs  into  his  sleeping-room,  laid  him  down 
on  his  bed,  and  were  standing  beside  him  watch- 
ing his  troubled  face,  and  whispering  to  each 
other  in  alarm. 

Waife  overheard  Hartopp  proposing  to  go  in 
search  of  medical  assistance,  and  exclaimed, 
piteously,  "  Xo,  that  would  scare  me  to  death. 
No  doctors — no  eaves-droppers.  Leave  me  to 
myself— quiet  and  darkness ;  I  shall  be  well  to- 
morrow." 

George  drew  the  curtains  round  the  bed,  and 
Waife  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "You  will  not 
let  out  what  you  heard,  I  know ;  you  under- 
stand how  little  I  can  now  care  for  men's  judg- 
ments ;  but  how  dreadful  it  would  be  to  undo 
all  I  have  done — I  to  be  witness  against  my 
Lizzy's  child!  I — I!  I  trust  you — dear,  dear 
Mr.  Morley ;  make  Mr.  Harto[)p  sensible  that, 
if  he  would  not  drive  me  mad,  not  a  syllable  of 
what  he  heard  must  go  forth — 'twould  be  base 
in  him." 

"Nay!"  said  Hartopp,  whispering  also  through 
the  dark — "Don't  fear  me;  I  will  hold  my  peace, 
though  'tis  very  hard  not  to  tell  Williams,  at 
least,  that  you  did  not  take  me  in.  But  you 
shall  be  obeyed." 

They  drew  away  Merle,  who  was  wondering 
what  the  whispered  talk  was  about,  catching  a 
word  or  two  here  and  there,  and  left  the  old 
man  not  quite  to  solitude — Waife's  hand,  in 
quitting  George's  grasp,  dropped  on  the  dog's 
head. 

Hartopp  went  back  to  his  daughter's  home  in 
a  state  of  great  excitement,  drinking  more  wine 
than  usual  at  dinner,  talking  more  magisterial- 
ly than  he  had  ever  been  known  to  talk,  railing 
quite  misanthropically  against  the  world ;  ob- 
serving that  Williams  had  become  insufferably 
overbearing,  and  should  be  pensioned  oft':  in 
short,  casting  the  whole  family  into  the  great- 
est perplexity  to  guess  what  had  come  to  the 
mild  man.  ilerle  found  himself  a  lodging,  and 
cast  a  horarj'  scheme  as  to  what  would  happen 
to  Waife  and  himself  for  the  next  three  months, 
and  found  all  the  aspects  so  penersely  contra- 
dictory, that  he  owned  he  was  no  wiser  as  to  the 
future  than  he  was  before  the  scheme  was  cast. 
George  Morley  remained  in  the  Cottage,  steal- 
ing up,  from  time  to  time,  to  Waife's  room,  but 
not  fatiguing  him  with  talk.  Before  midnight 
the  old  man  slept,  but  his  slumber  was  much 
perturbed,  as  if  by  fearful  dreams.  However, 
he  rose  early,  very  weak,  but  free  from  fever, 
and  in  full  possession  of  his  reason.  To  George's 
delight,  Waife's  first  words  to  him  then  were 
expressive  of  a  wish  to  return  to  Sophy.  ' '  He 
had  dreamed,"  he  said,  "that  he  had  heard  her 
voice  calling  oitt  to  him  to  come  to  her  help." 
He  would  not  revert  to  the  scene  with  Jasper. 
George  once  ventured  to  touch  on  that  reminis- 
cence, but  the  old  man's  look  became  so  implor- 
ing that  he  desisted.  Nevertheless,  it  was  evi- 
dent to  the  Pastor  that  Waife's  desire  of  return 
was  induced  by  his  belief  that  he  had  become 
necessary  to  Sophy's  p';otection.  Jasper,  whose 
remorse  would  probably  be  very  short-lived,  had 
clearly  discovered  Sophy's  residence,  and  as 
clearly  Waife,  and  Waife  alone,  srill  retained 
some  hold  over  his  rugged  breast.     Perhaps, 


2G6 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


too,  the  old  man  had  no  longer  the  same  dread 
of  encountering  Jasper;  rather,  perhaps,  a  faint 
hope  that,  in  another  meeting,  he  might  more 
availingly  soften  his  son's  heart.  He  was  not 
only  willing,  then — he  was  eager  to  depart,  and 
either  regained  or  assumed  much  of  his  old 
cheerfulness  in  settling  with  his  hostess,  and 
parting  with  Merle,  on  whom  he  forced  his  latest 
savings,  and  the  tasteful  contents  of  his  panier. 
Then  he  took  aside  George,  and  whispered  in 
his  ear,  "A  very  honest, kind-hearted  man.  Sir; 
can  you  deliver  him  from  the  Planets! — they 
bring  him  into  sad  trouble.  Is  there  no  open- 
ing for  a  cobbler  at  Humberston?" 

George  nodded,  and  went  back  to  Merle,  who 
was  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  coat-sleeve.  "  My 
good  friend,"  said  the  scholar,  "do  me  two  fa- 
vors besides  the  greater  one  you  have  already 
bestowed  in  conducting  me  back  to  a  revered 
friend.  First,  let  me  buy  of  you  the  contents 
of  tliat  basket ;  I  have  children  among  whom  I 
would  divide  them  as  heir-looms ;  next,  as  we 
were  traveling  thither,  you  told  me  that,  in  your 
younger  days,  ere  you  took  to  a  craft  wliich  does 
not  seem  to  have  prospered,  you  were  brought 
up  to  country  pursuits,  and  knew  all  about  cows 
and  sheep,  their  cure  and  tlieir  maladies.  Well, 
I  have  a  few  acres  of  glebe-land  on  my  own 
hands,  not  enough  for  a  bailiff — too  much  for 
my  gardener — and  a  pretty  cottage,  which  once 
belonged  to  a  schoolmaster,  but  we  have  built 
him  a  larger  one ;  it  is  now  vacant,  and  at  your 
service.  Come  and  take  all  trouble  of  land  and 
stock  off  my  hands ;  we  shall  not  quarrel  about 
the  salary.  But,  hark-ye,  my  friend — on  one 
proviso  —  give  up  the  Crystal,  and  leave  the 
Stars  to  mind  their  own  business." 

"Please  your  Reverence,"  said  Merle,  who, 
at  the  earlier  part  of  the  address,  had  evinced 
the  most  grateful  emotion,  but  who,  at  the  pro- 
viso which  closed  it,  jerked  himself  up,  dignified 
and  displeased,  "Please  your  Reverence,  no! 
Kit  Merle  is  not  so  unnatral  as  to  swop  away 
his  Significator  at  Birth  for  a  mess  of  porritch ! 
There  was  that  forrin  chap,  Gally-Leo — he  stuck 
to  the  stars,  or  the  sun,  which  is  the  same  thing 
— and  the  stars  stuck  by  him,  and  brought  him 
honor  and  glory,  though  the  Parsons  war  dead 
agin  him.  He  had  Malefics  in  his  Ninth  House, 
which  belongs  to  Parsons." 

"  Can't  the  matter  be  compromised,  dear  Mr. 
George?"  said  Waife,  persuasively.  "  Suppose 
Merle  promises  to  keep  his  crystal  and  astrolo- 
gical schemes  to  himself,  or  at  least  only  talk 
of  _  them  to  you ;  they  can't  hurt  you,  I  should 
think.  Sir?  And  science  is  a  sacred  thing, 
Merle ;  and  the  Chaldees,  who  were  the  great 
star-gazers,  never  degraded  themselves  by  show- 
ing off  to  the  vulgar.  Mr.  George,  who  is  a 
scliolar,  will  convince  you  of  that  fact." 

"Content,"  said  George.  "So  long  as  Mr. 
Merle  will  leave  my  children  and  servants,  and 
the  parish  generally,  in  happy  ignorance  of  the 
future,  I  give  him  the  fullest  leave  to  discuss 
his  science  with  myself  whenever  we  chat  to- 
gether on  summer  noons  or  in  winter  evenings ; 
and  perhaps  I  may — " 

"  Be  converted  ?"  said  Waife,  with  a  twinkling 
gleam  of  the  jtlayful  Humor  which  had  ever 
sported  along  his  thorny  way  by  the  side  of 
Sorrow. 

"I  did  not  mean  that,"  said  the  Parson,  smil- 


ing; "rather  the   contrary.     What   say  you, 
Merle  ?     Is  it  not  a  bargain  ?" 

"Sir — God  bless  you!"  cried  Merle,  simply; 
"  I  see  you  won't  let  me  stand  in  my  own  light. 
And  what  Gentleman  Waife  says  as  to  the  vul- 
gar, is  uncommon  true." 

This  matter  settled,  and  Merle's  future  se- 
cured in  a  way  that  his  stars,  or  his  version  of 
j  their  language,  had  not  foretold  to  him,  George 
and  Waife  walked  on  to  the  station.  Merle  fol- 
lowing with  the  Parson's  small  carpet-bag,  and 
Sir  Isaac  charged  w^ith  Waife's  bundle.     They 
had  not  gone  many  yards  before  they  met  Har- 
topp,  who  was  indeed  on  his  way  to  Prospect 
I  Row.     He  was  vexed  at  learning  Waife  was 
I  about  to  leave  so  abruptly ;  he  had  set  his  heart 
j  on  coaxing  him  to  return  to   Gatesboro'  with 
i  himself — astounding  Williams  and  ilrs.  H.,  and 
I  proclaiming  to  Market  Place  and  Higli  Street, 
that,  in  deeming  Mr.  Chapman  a  g(5od  and  a 
great  man  disguised,  he,  Josiah  Havtopp,  had 
not  been  taken  in.     He  consoled  himself  a  little 
for  Waife's  refusal  of  this  kind  invitation  and 
unexpected  departure,  by  walking  ])roudly  be- 
side him  to  the  station,  finding  it  thronged  with 
passengers — some  of  them  great  burgesses  of 
Ouzelford — in  whose  presence  he  kept  bowing 
his  head  to  AVaife  wuth  every  word  he  uttered; 
and,  calling  the  guard — who  was  no  stranger  to 
his  own  name  and  importance — he  told  him 
pompously  to  be  particularly  attentive  to  that 
elderly  gentleman,   and  see  that  he  and  his 
companion  had  a  carriage  to  themselves  all  the 
way,  and  that  Sir  Isaac  had  a  particularly  com- 
fortable box.     "A  very  great  man,"  he  said, 
with  his  finger  to  his  lip,  "  only  he  will  not 
have  it  known — just  at  present."     The  guard 
stares,  and  promises  all  defei'ence — opens  the 
door  of  a  central  first-class  carriage — assures 
Waife  that  he  and  his  friend  shall  not  l>e  dis- 
turbed by  other  jjussengers.     The  train  heaves 
into  movement — Ilartopp  runs  on  by  its  side 
along  the  stand — his  hat  off— kissing  his  hand ; 
then,  as  the  convoy  shoots  under  yon  dark  tun- 
nel, and  is  lost  to  sight,  he  turns  back,  and  see- 
ing Merle,  says  to  him,  "  You  know  that  gentle- 
man— the  old  one  ?" 
"Yes,  a  many  year." 
"Ever  heard  any  thing  against  him?" 
"  Yes,  once — at  Gatesboro'." 
"At  Gatesboro'! — ah!  and  you  did  not  be- 
lieve it  ?" 

"Onlyjist  for  a  moment — transiting." 
"I  envy  you,"  said  Hartopp ;  and  he  went 
off  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Jasper  Losely  in  his  Element.  O  young  Reader,  who- 
soever tilou  art,  on  whom  Nature  has  bestowed  lier 
magnificent  gift  of  physical  power  witli  tlie  joys  it 
commands,  with  tiie  daring  that  springs  from  it — on 
closing  this  chapter,  pause  a  moment  and  think — 
"Wliat  wilt  thou  do  with  it?"  Shall  it  he  brute-like 
or  God-like  ?  With  what  advantage  for  life — its  de- 
liglits  or  its  perils — toils  borne  with  Ciise,  and  glories 
cheap  bought — dost  thou  start  at  lift's  onset ?  Give 
thy  sinews  a  Mind  that  conceives  the  Heroic,  and  what 
noble  things  thou  maysi  do  !  But  value  tliy  sinews 
for  rude  Strength  alone,  and  that  strength  may  be 
turned  to  tliy  shame  and  thy  torture.  The  Wealth  of 
thy  life  win'  but  tempt  to  its  Waste.  Abuse,  at  first 
felt  not,  will  poison  the  uses  of  Sense.     Wild  bulls 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


267 


gore  and  trample  their  foes.     Thou  hast  Soul!     Wilt  ; 
tiiou  trample  and  gore  it?  j 

Jaspek  Losely,  on  quitting  his  father,  spent 
his  last  coins  in  payment  for  his  horse's  food, 
and  on  fierv  diink  for  himself.  In  haste  he 
mounted — in  haste  he  spurred  on  to  London ; 
not  even  pence  for  the  toll-bai-s.  Where  he  ' 
found  the  gates  open,  he  dashed  through  them  | 
headlong ;  where  closed,  as  the  night  advanced,  | 
he  forced  his  horse  across  the  fields,  over  hedge 
and  ditch — more  than  once  the  animal  faUing 
with  him — more  than  once  thrown  from  the 
saddle ;  for,  while  a  most  daring,  he  was  not  a  ' 
very  practiced  rider;  but  it  was  not  easy  to 
break  bones  so  strong,  and  though  bruised  and 
dizzy  he  continued  his  fierce  way.  At  morn- 
ing his  horse  was  thoroughly  exhausted,  and  at 
the  first  village  he  reached  after  sunrise  he  left 
the  poor  beast  at  an  inn,  and  succeeded  in  bor- 
rowing of  the  landlord  £1  on  the  pawn  of  the 
horse  thus  left  as  hostage.  Eesolved  to  husband 
this  sum  he  performed  the  rest  of  his  journey 
on  foot.  He  reached  London  at  night,  and 
went  straight  to  Cutts's  lodging.  Cutts  was, 
however,  in  the  club-room  of  those  dark  associ- 
ates against  whom  Losely  had  been  warned. 
Oblivious  of  his  solemn  promise  to  Arabella, 
Jasper  startled  the  revelers  as  he  stalked  into 
the  room,  and  toward  the  chair  of  honor  at  the 
far  end  of  it,  on  which  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  lord  it  over  the  fell  groups  he  had  treated  out 
of  Poole's  pm-se.  One  of  the  biggest  and  most 
redoubted  of  the  Black  Family  was  now  in  that 
seat  of  dignity,  and,  refusing  siu'lily  to  yield  it 
at  Jasper's  rude  summons,  was  seized  by  the 
scufl'  of  the  neck,  and  literally  hurled  on  the 
table  iri  front,  coming  do^Ti  with  clatter  and 
crash  among  mugs  and  glasses.  Jasper  seated 
himself  coolly,  while  the  hubbub  began  to  swell 
— and  roared  for  drink.  An  old  man,  who 
served  as  drawer  to  these  cavaliers,  went  out  to 
obey  the  order;  and  when  he  was  gf^ne,  those 
near  the  door  swung  across  it  a  heavy  bar.' 
Wrath  against  the  domineering  intruder  was 
gathering,  and  waited  but  the  moment  to  ex- 
plode. Jasper,  turning  round  his  bloodshot  eyes, 
saw  Cutts  within  a  few  chairs  of  him,  seeking 
to  shrink  out  of  sight. 

"  Cutts,  come  hither  I"  cried  he,  imperiously. 
Cutts  did  not  stir. 

"  Throw  me  that  cur  this  way — you  who  sit 
next  him!" 

'•  Don't,  don't ;  his  mad  fit  is  on  him ;  he  will 
murder  me — murder  me,  who  have  helped  and 
saved  you  all  so  often.     Stand  by  me '." 

"We  will,"  said  both  his  neighbors,  the  one 
groping  for  his  case-knife,  the  other  for  his  re- 
volver. 

'•Do  you  fear  I  should  lop  your  ears,  dog  I" 
cried  Jasper,  "for  shrinking  from  my  side  with 
your  tail  between  your  legs.  Pooh  I  I  scorn  to 
•waste  force  on  a  thing  so  small.  After  all,  I 
am  glad  you  left  me :  I  did  not  want  you.  You 
will  find  your  horse  at  an  inn  in  the  village  of 

.     I  will  pay  for  its  hire  whenever  we  meet 

again.  Meanwhile,  find  another  master — I  dis- 
charge you.  Milk  tonneres  !  why  does  that  wea- 
sel-faced snail  not  bring  me  the  brandy?  By 
yonr  leave,"  and  he  appropriated  to  himself  the 
brimming  glass  of  his  next  neighbor.  Thus  re- 
freshed, he  glanced  round  through  the  reek  of 
tobacco  smoke ;  saw  the  man  he  had  dislodged. 


and  who,  rather  amazed  than  stunned  by  his 
fall,  had  kept  silence  on  rising,  and  was  now 
ominously  interchanging  muttered  words  with 
two  of  his  comrades,  who  were  also  on  their 
legs.  Jasper  turned  from  him  contemptuous- 
ly ;  ^^'^th  increasing  contempt  in  his  hard,  fierce 
sneer,  noted  the  lowering  frowns  on  either  side 
the  Pandemonium ;  and  it  was  only  with  an 
angry  flash  from  his  eyes  that  he  marked,  on 
closing  his  survey,  the  bar  dropped  across  the 
door,  and  two  forms,  knife  in  hand,  stationed 
at  the  threshold. 

"  Aha  I  my  jolly  companions,"  said  he,  then, 
"  you  do  right  to  bar  the  door.  Prudent  fami- 
lies can't  settle  their  quarrels  too  snugly  among 
themselves.  I  am  come  here  on  purpose  to  give 
you  all  a  proper  scolding ;  and  rf  some  cf  you 
don't  hang  your  heads  for  shame  before  I  have 
done,  you'll  die  more  game  than  I  think  for, 
whenever  you  come  to  the  last  Drop  I" 

He  rose  as  he  thus  spoke,  folding  his  sinewy 
arms  across  his  wide  chest.  Most  of  the  men 
had  risen  too — some,  however,  remained  seat- 
ed. There  might  be  eighteen  or  twenty  men  in 
all.  Every  eye  was  fixed  on  him,  and  many  a 
hand  was  on  a  deadly  weapon. 

"  Scum  of  the  earth  I"  burst  forth  Jasper, 
with  voice  like  a  roll  of  thunder,  "I  stooped  to 
come  among  you — I  shared  among  you  my  mon- 
ey. Was  any  one  of  you  too  poor  to  pay  up  his 
club  fee — to  buy  a  draught  of  Forgetfulness — I 
said,  '  Brother,  take  1'  Did  brawl  break  out  in 
vour  jollities — were  knives  drawn — a  throat  in 
"danger — this  right  hand  struck  down  the  up- 
roar, crushed  back  the  coward  murder.  If  I 
did  not  join  in  your  rogueries,' it  was  because 
they  were  sneaking  and  pitiful.  I  came  as  your 
Patron,  not  as  your  Pal ;  I  did  not  meddle  with 
your  secrets — did  not  touch  your  plunder.  I 
owed  you  nothing.  Ofl^al  that  you 'are!  to  me 
you  owed  drink,  and  meat,  and  good-fellowship. 
I  gave  you  mirth,  and  I  gave  you  Law  ;  and  in 
return  ye  laid  a  plot  among  you  to  get  rid  of 
me — how,  ye  white-livered  scoundrels  ?  Oho  ! 
not  by  those  fists,  and  knives,  and  bludgeons. 
All  yovu-  pigeon  breasts  clubbed  together  had 
not  manhood  for  that.  But  to  palm  ofl"  upon 
me  some  dastardly  deed  of  your  own,  by  snares 
and  scraps  of  false  evidence — false  oaths,  too, 
no  doubt — to  smuggle  me  oft  to  the  hangman. 
That  was  your  precious  contrivance.  Once 
again  I  am  here ;  but  this  once  only.  What 
for? — why,  to  laugh  at,  and  spit  at,  and  spurn 
you.  And  if  one  man  among  you  has  in  him 
an  ounce  of  man's  blood,  let  him  show  me  the 
traitors  who  planned  that  pitiful  project,  and  be 
they  a  dozen,  they  shall  caiTy  the  mark  of  this 
hand  till  their  carcasses  go  to  the  stu-geon's 
scalpel." 

He  ceased.  Though  each  was  now  hustling 
the  other  toward  him,  and  the  whole  pack  of 
miscreants  was  closing  up,  hke  hounds  round  a 
\vild  boar  at  bay,  the  only  one  who  gave  audi- 
ble tongue  was'that  thin' splinter  of  life  called 
Cutts ! 

"Look  you,  General  Jas,  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take your  ever  coming  here.  You  were  a  fine 
fellow  once,  particularly  in  the  French  way  of 
doing  business — large  prizes  and  lots  of  row. 
That  don't  suit  us ;  we  are  quiet  Englishmen. 
You  brag  of  beating  and  bullying  the  gentle- 
men who  admit  you  among  them,  and  of  not 


268 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


sharing  their  plans  or  risks  ;  but  that  sort  of 
thing  is  quite  out  of  order — no  jjrecedent  for  it. 
How  do  we  know  that  you  are  not  a  spy,  or 
could  not  be  made  one,  since  you  say  you  owe 
us  nothing,  and  hold  us  in  such  scorn  ?  Truth 
is,  we  are  all  sick  of  you.  You  say  you  only 
come  this  once  :  very  well,  you  have  spun  your 
yarn — now  go.  That's  all  we  want ;  go  in  peace, 
and  never  trouble  us  again.  Gentlemen,  I  move 
that  General  Jas  be  expelled  this  club,  and  re- 
quested to  withdraw." 

"  I  second  it,"  said  the  man  whom  Jasper 
had  flung  on  the  table. 

"  Those  who  are  in  favor  of  the  resolution 
hold  up  their  hands  ;  all — carried  unanimously. 
General  Jas  is  expelled." 

'•  Expel  me  I"  said  Jasper,  who,  in  the  mean 
while,  swaying  to  and  fro  his  brawny  bulk,  had 
cleared  the  space  round  him,  and  stood  resting 
his  hands  on  the  heavy  arm-chair  from  which 
he  had  risen. 

A  hostile  and  simultaneous  movement  of  the 
group  brought  four  or  five  of  the  foremost  on 
him.  Up  rose  the  chair  on  which  Jasper  had 
leaned — up  it  rose  in  his  right  hand,  and  two 
of  the  assailants  fell  as  falls  an  ox  to  the  butch- 
er's blow.  With  his  left  hand  he  wrenched  a 
knife  from  a  third  of  the  foes,  and  thus  armed 
with  blade  and  buckler,  he  sprang  on  the  table, 
towering  over  all.  Before  him  was  the  man 
with  the  revolver,  a  genteeler  outlaw  than  the 
rest — ticket-of-leave  man,  who  had  been  trans- 
ported for  forgery.  "  Shall  I  shoot  him  ?"  whis- 
pered this  knave  to  Cutts.  Cutts  drew  back  the 
hesitating  arm.  *'  No  ;  the  noise  !  bludgeons 
safer."  Pounce,  as  Cutts  whispered  —  pounce 
as  a  hawk  on  its  quarry,  darted  Jasper's  swoop 
on  the  Forger,  and  the  next  moment,  flinging 
the  chair  in  the  faces  of  those  who  were  now 
swarming  up  the  table,  Jasper  was  armed  with 
the  revolver,  which  he  had  clutched  from  its 
startled  owner,  and  its  six  barrels  threatened 
death,  right  and  left,  beside  and  before  and 
around  him,  as  he  turned  from  face  to  face. 
Instantly  there  fell  a  hush — instantly  the  as- 
sault paused.  Every  one  felt  that  there  no  fal- 
tering would  make  the  hand  tremble  or  the  ball 
swerve.  Wherever  Jasper  turned  the  foes  re- 
coiled. He  laughed  with  audacious  mockery  as 
he  surveyed  the  recreants. 

"  Down  with  your  arms,  each  of  you — down 
that  knife,  down  that  bludgeon!  That's  well. 
Down  yours — there  ;  yours-^yours.  What,  all 
down  !  Pile  them  here  on  the  table  at  my  feet. 
Dogs,  what  do  you  fear  ?  —  death  ?  The  first 
who  refuses  dies." 

Mute  and  servile  as  a  repentant  Legion  to  a 
Caesar's  order,  the  knaves  piled  their  weapons. 

"  Unbar  the  door,  you  two.  You,  orator 
Cutts,  go  in  front ;  light  a  candle  ;  open  the 
street-door.  So — so — so.  Who  will  treat  me 
with  a  parting  cup — to  your  healths?  Thank 
you.  Sir.  Fall  back  there ;  stand  back— along 
the  wall — each  of  you.  Line  my  way.  Ho, 
ho  ! — yon  harm  me — you  daunt  me — yoii — you  ! 
Stop — I  have  a  resolution  to  propose.  Hear  it, 
and  cheer.  '  That  this  meeting  rescinds  the  res- 
olution for  the  expulsion  of  General  Jasper,  and 
entreats  him  humbly  to  remain,  tlie  pride  and 
ornament  of  the  club  !'  Those  who  are  for  that 
resolution,  hold  up  their  hands — as  many  as  are 
against  it,  theirs.     Carried  unanimouslv.     Gen- 


tlemen, I  thank  you — proudest  day  of  my  life — 
but  I'll  see  you  hanged  first ;  and'till  that  sight 
diverts  me — gentlemen,  your  health  !" 

Descending  from  his  eminence,  he  passed 
slowly  down  the  room  unscathed,  unmenaced, 
and,  with  a  low  mocking  bow  at  the  threshold, 
strode  along  the  passage  to  the  street-door. 
There,  seeing  Cutts  with  the  light  in  his  hand, 
he  uncocked  the  pistol,  striking  off  the  caps, 
and  giving  it  to  his  quondam  associate,  said, 
"  Return  that  to  its  owner,  with  my  compli- 
ments. One  word— speak  truth,  and"  fear  no- 
thing.    Did  you  send  help  to  Darrell  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  swear  it." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  should  like  to^^ave 
owed  so  trusty  a  friend  that  one  favor.  Go 
back  to  your  pals.  Understand  now  why  I 
scorned  to  work  with  such  rotten  tools." 

"A  wonderful  fellow,  indeed!"  muttered 
Cutts,  as  his  eye  followed  the  receding  form  of 
the  triumphant  bravo.  "All  London  might  look 
to  itself  if  he  had  more  solid  brains  and  less 
liquid  fire  in  them." 


CHAPTER  VIII, 

.Jasper  Losely  sleeps  under  the  portico  from  which  False- 
hood was  borne  by  Black  Horses.  He  forgets  a  prom- 
ise, reweaves  a  scheme,  visits  a  liver  side;  and  a  door 
closes  on  the  Strong  Wan  and  the  Grim  Woman. 

Jasper  had  satisfied  the  wild  yeaminsrs  of  his 
wounded  vanity.  He  had  vindicated  his  claim 
to  hardihood  and  address,  which  it  seemed  to 
him  he  had  forfeited  in  his  interview  with  Dar- 
rell. With  crest  erect  and  a  positive  sense  of 
elation,  of  animal  joy  that  predominated  over 
hunger,  fatigue,  remorse,  he  strided  on — he 
knew  not  whither.  He  would  not  go  back  to 
his  former  lodgings ;  they  were  too  familiarly 
known  to  the  set  which  he  had  just  flung  from 
him,  witif  a  vague  resolve  to  abjure  henceforth 
all  accomplices,  and  trust  to  himself  alone. 
The  hour  was  now  late — the  streets  deserted — 
the  air  bitingly  cold.  Must  he  at  last  resign 
himself  to  the  loathed  dictation  of  Arabella 
Crane?  Well,  lie  now  preferred  even  that  to 
humbling  himself  to  Darrell,  after  what  had 
passed.  Darrell's  parting  words  had  certainly 
implied  that  he  would  not  be  as  obdurate  to  en- 
treaty as  he  had  shown  himself  to  threats.  But 
Jasper  was  in  no  humor  to  entreat.  Mechanic- 
ally he  continued  to  stride  on  toward  the  soli- 
tary district  in  which  Arabella  held  her  home  ; 
but  the  night  was  now  so  far  advanced  that  he 
sJirunk  from  disturbing  the  grim  woman  at  that 
hour — almost  as  respectfully  afraid  of  her  dark 
eye  and  stern  voice  as  the  outlaws  he  had  quitted 
were  of  his  own  crushing  hand  and  leveled  pis- 
tol. So,  finding  himself  in  one  of  the  large 
squares  of  Bloomsbnry,  he  gathered  himself  up 
under  the  sheltering  porch  of  a  spacious  man- 
sion, unconscious  that  it  was  the  very  residence 
which  Darrell  had  once  occupied,  and  that  from 
that  portico  the  Black  Horses  had  borne  away 
the  mother  of  his  wife.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
was  fastasleep — sleeping  with  such  heavy,  death- 
like soundness,  that  the  policeman  passing  him 
on  his  beat,  after  one  or  two  vain  attempts  to 
rouse  him,  was  seized  with  a  rare  compassion, 
and  suffered  the  weary  outcast  to  slumber  on. 

When  Jasper  woke  at  last  in  the  gray  dawn, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


269 


he  felt  a  strange  numbness  in  his  limbs ;  it  was 
even  with  difficulty  that  he  could  lift  himself 
up.  This  sensation  gradually  wearing  off,  was 
followed  by  a  quick  tingling  down  the  arms  to 
the  tips  of  the  fingers.  A  gloomy  noise  rang  in 
his  ears,  like  the  boom  of  funeral  church-bells ; 
and  the  pavement  seemed  to  be  sliding  from 
under  him.  Little  heeding  these  symptoms, 
which  he  ascribed  to  cold  and  want  of  food,  and 
rather  agreeably  surprised  not  to  feel  the  gnaw 
of  his  accustomed  pains,  Jasper  now  betook 
himself  to  I'odden  Place.  The  house  was  still 
unclosed;  and  it  was  not  till  Jasper's  knock 
had  been  pretty  often  repeated  that  the  bolts 
were  withdrawn  from  the  door  and  Bridgett 
Greggs  appeared.  "  Oh,  it  is  you,  Mr.  Losely," 
she  said,  with  much  sullenness,  but  with  no  ap- 
parent surprise.  "  Mistress  thought  you  would 
come  while  she  was  away ;  and  I'm  to  get  you 
the  bedroom  you  had,  over  the  stationer's,  six 
years  ago,  if  you  like  it.  You  are  to  take  your 
meals  here,  and  have  the  best  of  every  thing; 
that's  mistress's  orders." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Crane  is  out  of  town,"  said  Jas- 
per, much  relieved;  "where  has  she  gone?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  When  will  she  be  back?" 

"  In  a  few  days  ;  so  she  told  me.  Will  you 
walk  in  and  have  breakfast  ?  Mistress  said 
there  was  to  be  always  plenty  in  the  house — 
you  might  come  any  moment.  Please  scrape 
your  feet." 

Jasper  hea\'ily  mounted  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  impatiently  waited  the  substantial  re- 
freshments which  were  soon  placed  before  him. 
The  room  looked  unaltered,  as  if  he  had  left  it 
but  the  day  before — the  prim  book-shelves — 
the  empty  bird-cage — the  broken  lute — the  pat- 
ent easy-chair — the  footstool — the  sofa,  which 
had  been  added  to  the  original  furniture  for  his 
express  comfort,  in  the  days  when  he  was  first 
adopted  as  a  son — nay,  on  the  hearth-rug  the 
very  slippers,  on  the  back  of  the  chair  the  very 
dressing-gown,  graciously  worn  by  him  while 
yet  the  fairness  of  his  form  justified  his  fond 
respect  for  it. 

For  that  day  he  was  contented  with  the  neg- 
ative luxur}-  of  complete  repose ;  the  more  so 
as,  in  every  attempt  to  move,  he  felt  the  same 
numbness  of  limb  as  that  with  which  he  had 
woke,  accompanied  by  a  kind  of  painful  weight 
at  the  back  of  the  head,  and  at  the  junction 
which  the  great  seat  of  intelligence  forms  at 
the  spine  with  the  great  mainspring  of  force ; 
and,  withal,  a  reluctance  to  stir,  and  a  more 
than  usual  inclination  to  doze.  But  the  next 
day,  though  these  unpleasant  sensations  con- 
tinued, his  impatience  of  thought  and  hate  of 
solitude  made  him  anxious  to  go  forth  and  seek 
some  distraction.  Xo  distraction  left  to  him 
but  the  gambling-table — no  companions  but  fel- 
low-victims in  that  sucking  whirlpool.  Well, 
he  knew  a  low  gaming-house,  open  all  dav  as 
all  night.  Wishing  to  add  somewhat  to  "the 
miserable  remains  of  the  £1  borrowed  on  the 
horse,  that  made  all  his  capital,  he  asked  Brid- 
gett, indifferently,  to  oblige  him  with  two  or 
three  sovereigns ;  if  she  had  them  not,  she 
might  borrow  them  in  the  neighborhood  till  her 
mistress  returned.  Bridgett  answered,  with  ill- 
simulated  glee,  that  her  mistress  had  given  posi- 
tive orders  that  Mr.  Losely  was  to  have  every 


thing  he  called  for  except  —  money.     Jasper 
'  colored  with  wrath  and  shame  ;  but  he  said  no 
I  more — whistled — took  his  hat — went  out — re- 
paired to  the  gaming-house — lost  his  last  shil- 
ling, and  returned  moodily  to  dine  in  Podden 
I  Place.     The  austerity  of  the  room,  the  loneli- 
'  ness  of  the  evening,  began  now  to  inspire  him 
,  with  unmitigated  disgust,  which  was  added  iu 
.  fresh  account  to  his  old  score  of  repugnance  for 
the  absent  Arabella.    The  affront  put  upon  him 
:  in  the  orders  which  Bridgett  had  so  faithfully 
I  repeated,  made  him  yet  more  distastefully  con- 
j  template  the  dire  necessity  of  falling  under  the 
rigid  despotism  of  this  determined  guardian :  it 
j  was  like  going  back  to  a  preparatory  school,  to 
be  mulcted  of  pocket-money,  and  set  in  a  dark 
I  corner  I     But  what  other  resource?     Xone  but 
appeal  to  Darrell — still  more  intolerable  ;  except 
I  — he  paused  in  his  cogitation,  shook  his  head, 
'muttered  "Xo,  no."     But  that  "except"  Kould 
return  I     Except  to  forget  his  father's  prayer 
and  his  own  promise — except  to  hunt  out  Sophy, 
and  extract  from  the  generosity,  compassion,  or 
fear  of  her  protectress,  some  such  conditions  as 
he  would  have  wi-ung  from  Darrell.    He  had  no 
doubt  now  that  the  girl  was  with  Lady  Mont- 
fort;  he  felt  that,  if  she  really  loved  So]jhy,  and 
i  were  sheltering  her  fi-om  any  tender  recollection, 
]  whether  of  Matilda  or  of  Darrell  himself,  he 
I  might  much  more  easily  work  on  the  delicate 
'  nerves  of  a  woman,  shrinking  from  all  noise  and 
scandal,  than  he  could  on  the  stubborn  pride  of 
I  his  resolute  father-in-law.     Perhaps  it  was  on 
I  account  of  Sopihy — perhaps  to  plead  for  her — 
!  that  Lady  Montfort  had  gone  to  Fawley  ;  per- 
'  haps  the  grief  visible  on  that  lady's  countenance, 
!  as  he  caught  so  hasty  a  glimpse  of  it,  might  be 
:  occasioned  by  the  failure  of  her  mission.    If  so, 
,  there  might  be  now  some  breach  or  dissension 
.  between  her  and  Darrell,  which  might  render 
,  the  Marchioness  still  more  accessible  to  his  de- 
mands.    As  for  his  father — if  Jasper  played  his 
i  cards  well  and  luckily,  his  father  might  never 
':  know  of  his  disobedience ;   he  might  coax  or 
j  frighten  Lady  Montfort  into  secrecy.     It  might 
be  quite  unnecessary  for  him  even  to  see  Sophy  ; 
1  if  she  caught  sight  of  him,  she  would  surely  no 
more  recognize  his  altered  features  than  Eugge 
had  done.     These  thoughts  gathered  on  him 
stronger  and  stronger  all  the  evening,  and  grew 
into  resolves  with  the  next  morning.    He  sallied 
:  out  after  breakfast — the  same  numbness  ;  but 
he  walked  it  off.     Easy  enough  to  find  the  ad- 
dress of  the  ilarchioness  of  ]Montfort.    He  asked 
it  boldly  of  the  porter  at  the  well-known  house 
of  the  present  Lord,  and,  on  learning  it,  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  Eichmond — on   foot,   and 
thence  to  the  small,  scattered  hamlet  immedi- 
ately contiguous  to  Lady  !Montfort's  villa.    Here 
he  found  two  or  three  idle  boatmen  lounging  near 
the  river  side ;  and  entering  into  conversation 
with  them  about  their  craft,  which  was  sufficient- 
ly familiar  to  him,  for  he  had  plied  the  stron- 
gest oar  on  that  tide  in  the  holidays  of  his  youth, 
he  proceeded  to  inquiries,  which  were  readily 
and  unsuspectingly  answered.    "  Yes,  there  teas 
a  young  lady  withLady  Jlontfort ;  they  did  not 
know  her  name.     They  had  seen  her  often  in 
the  lawn — seen  her,  too,  at  church.     She  was 
very  pretty ;  yes,  she  had  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair." 
Of  his  father  he  only  heard  that  "  there  hadbeen 
an  old  gentleman  such  as  he  described — lame, 


270 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


and  with  one  eye — who  had  lived  some  months 
ago  in  a  cottage  on  Lady  Montfort's  grounds. 
They  heard  he  had  gone  away.  He  had  made 
baskets — they  did  not  know  if  for  sale ;  if  so, 
perhaps  for  a  charity.  They  supposed  he  was 
a  gentleman,  for  they  had  heard  he  was  some 
relation  to  the  young  lady.  But  Lady  ^Montfort's 
head  coachman  lived  in  the  village,  and  could, 
no  doubt,  give  him  all  the  information  he  re- 
quired." Jas])er  was  too  wary  to  call  on  the 
coachman  ;  he  had  learned  enough  for  the  pres- 
ent. Had  he  pi-osecuted  his  researches  farther, 
he  miglit  only  have  exposed  himself  to  questions, 
and  to  the  chance  of  his  inquiries  being  repeated 
to  Lady  Jlontfort  by  one  of  her  servants,  and 
thus  setting  her  on  her  guard ;  for  no  doubt  his 
father  had  cautioned  her  against  him.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  that  the  old  man  could  already 
have  returned  ;  and  those  to  whom  he  confined 
his  interrogatories  were  quite  ignorant  of  that 
fact.  Jasper  had  no  intention  to  intrude  him- 
self that  day  on  Lady  Montfort.  His  self-love 
shrank  from  presenting  himself  to  a  lady  of  such 
rank,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  once  presented 
on  equal  terms,  a.s  the  bridegroom  of  her  friend 
and  the  confidential  visitor  to  her  mother,  in 
habiliments  that  bespoke  so  utter  a  fall.  Better, 
too,  on  all  accounts,  to  appear  something  of  a 
gentleman  ;  more  likely  to  excite  pity  for  suffer- 
ing— less  likely  to  suggest  excuse  for  rebutting 
his  claims,  and  showing  him  to  the  door.  Nay, 
indeed,  so  dressed,  in  that  villainous  pea-jacket, 
and  with  all  other  habiliments  to  match,  would 
any  servant  admit  him? — could  he  get  into  Lady 
Montfort's  presence?  He  must  go  back — wait 
for  Mrs.  Crane's  return.  Doubtless  she  would 
hail  his  wish — half  a  reform  in  itself — to  cast 


off  the  outward  signs  of  an  accepted  degrada- 
tion. 

Accordingly  he  went  back  to  town  in  much 
better  spirits,  and  so  absorbed  in  his  hopes,  that, 
when  he  arrived  at  Podden  Place,  he  did  not 
observe  that,  from  some  obliquity  of  vision,  or 
want  of  the  normal  con-espondence  between  will 
and  muscle,  his  hand  twice  missed  the  knocker 
— wandering  first  above,  then  below  it ;  and 
that,  when  actually  in  his  clasp,  he  did  not  feel 
the  solid  iron  :  the  sense  of  touch  seemed  sus- 
pended. Bridgett  appeared.  "Mistress  is  come 
back,  and  will  see  you." 

Jasper  did  not  look  charmed  ;  he  winced,  but 
screwed  up  his  courage,  and  mounted  the  stairs 
—  slowly  —  heavily.  From  the  landing-place 
above  glared  down  the  dark  shining-eyes  that 
had  almost  quailed  his  bold  spirit  nearly  six 
years  before ;  and  almost  in  the  same  words  as 
then,  a  voice  as  exulting,  but  less  stern,  said, 
"  So  you  come  at  last  to  me,  Jasper  Losely — 
you  are  come!"  Eapidly — flittingly,  with  a 
step  noiseless  as  a  spectre's,  Arabella  Crane  de- 
scended the  stairs ;  but  she  did  not,  as  when  he 
first  sought  that  house  in  years  before,  grasp  his 
hand  or  gaze  into  his  face.  Rather,  it  was  with 
a  slirinking  avoidance  of  his  touch — with  some- 
thing like  a  shudder — that  she  glided  by  him 
into  the  open  drawing-room,  beckoning  to  him 
to  follow.  He  halted  a  moment ;  he  felt  a  long- 
ing to  retreat — to  fly  the  house ;  his  supersti- 
tious awe  of  her  very  benefits  came  back  to  him 
more  strongly  than  ever.  But  her  help  at  the  mo- 
ment was  necessary  to  his  very  hope  to  escape 
all  future  need  of  her,  and,  tliough  with  a  vague 
foreboding  of  unconjecturable  evil,  he  stepped 
into  the  room,  and  the  door  closed  on  both. 


BOOK      XI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  The  course  of  true  love  never  does  run  smooth  !"  May 
it  not  be  because  where  there  are  no  obstacles,  there 
are  no  tests  to  tlie  truth  of  Love?  Where  the  course 
is  smooth,  the  stream  is  crowded  with  pleasure-boats. 
AVhere  the  wave  swells,  and  the  shoals  threaten,  and 
the  sky  lowers,  the  pleasure-boats  have  gone  back  into 
harbor.  Ships  titled  for  rough  weather  are  those  built 
and  stored  for  long  voyage. 

I  PASS  over  the  joyous  meeting  between  Waife 
and  Sophy.  I  pass  over  George's  account  to  his 
fair  cousin  of  the  scene  he  and  Hartopp  had 
witnessed,  in  which  Waife's  innocence  had  been 
manifested,  and  his  reasons  for  accepting  the 
penalties  of  guilt  had  been  explained.  The 
first  few  agitated  days  following  Waife's  return 
have  rolled  away.  He  is  resettled  in  the  cot- 
tage from  which  he  had  fled  ;  he  refuses,  as  be- 
fore, to  take  up  his  abode  at  Lady  Montfort's 
house.  But  Sophy  has  been  almost  constantly 
his  companion,  and  Lady  Montfort  herself  has 
spent  hours  with  him  each  day — sometimes  in 
his  rustic  parlor,  sometimes  in  the  small  gar- 
den-plot round  his  cottage,  to  which  his  ram- 
bles are  confined.     George  has  gone  back  to  his 


home  and  duties  at  Humberston,  promising  very 
soon  to  revisit  his  old  friend  and  discuss  future 
plans. 

The  scholar,  though  with  a  sharp  pang,  con- 
ceding to  Waife  that  all  attempt  publicly  to 
clear  his  good  name  at  the  cost  of  reversing  the 
sacrifice  he  had  made,  must  be  forborne,  could 
not,  however,  be  induced  to  pledge  himself  to 
unconditional  silence.  George  felt  that  there 
were  at  least  some  others  to  whom  the  knowl- 
edge of  Waife's  innocence  was  imperatively 
due. 

Waife  is  seated  by  his  open  window.  It  is 
noon ;  there  is  sunshine  in  the  pale  blue  skies 
— an  unusual  softness  in  the  wintry  air.  His 
Bible  lies  on  the  table  beside  him.  He  has  just 
set  his  mark  in  the  page,  and  reverently  closed 
the  Book.  He  is  alone.  Lady  Montfort — who, 
since  her  return  from  Fawley,  has  been  suffer- 
ing from  a  kind  of  hectic  fever,  accompanied  by 
a  languor  that  made  even  the  walk  to  Waife's 
cottage  a  fatigue,  which  the  sweetness  of  her 
kindly  nature  enabled  her  to  overcome,  and 
would  not  permit  her  to  confess — has  been  so 
much  worse  that  morning  as  to  be  unable  to 


WHAT  WELL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ?    ' 


271 


leave  ber  room.  Sophy  has  gone  to  see  her. 
Waife  is  now  leaning  his  face  upon  his  hand, 
and  that  face  is  sadder  and  more  disquieted 
than  it  had  been,  perhaps,  in  all  his  wanderings. 
His  darling  Sophy  is  evidently  unhappy.  Her 
sorrow  bad  not  been  visible  during  the  first  two 
or  three  days  of  his  return,  chased  away  by  the 
jov  of  seeing  him — the  excitement  of  tender  i-e- 
proach  and  question — of  tears  that  seemed  as 
joyous  as  the  silvery  laugh  which  responded  to 
the  gayety  that  sported  round  the  depth  of  feel- 
ing with  which  he  himself  beheld  her  once 
more  clinging  to  his  side,  or  seated,  with  up- 
ward loving  eyes,  on  the  footstool  by  his  knees. 
Even  at  the  "first  look,  however,  he  had  found 
her  altered ;  her  cheek  was  thinner,  her  color 
paled.  Tbat  might  be  from  fretting  for  him. 
She  would  be  herself  again,  now  that  her  ten- 
der anxiety  was  relieved.  But  she  did  not  be- 
come hei-self  again.  The  arch  and  playful 
Sophy  he  had  left  was  gone,  as  if  never  to  re- 
turn. He  marked  that  her  step,  once  so  bound- 
ing, had  become  slow  and  spiritless.  Often 
when  she  sate  near  him,  seemingly  reading  or 
at  her  work,  he  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  not 
on  the  page — that  the  work  stopped  abruptly  in 
listless  hands ;  and  then  he  would  hear  her  sigh 
— a  heavy  but  short  impatient  sigh !  Xo  mis- 
taking that  sigh  by  those  who  have  studied 
grief:  Whether  in  maid  or  man,  in  young  or 
old,  in  the  gentle  Sophy,  so  new  to  life,  oivin 
the  haughty  Dan-ell,  weaiy  of  the  world,  and 
shrinking  from  its  honors,  that  sigh  had  the 
same  character,  a  like  symptom  of  a  malady  in 
common :  the  same  effort  to  free  the  heart  from 
an  oppressive  load ;  the  same  token  of  a  sharp 
and  rankling  remembrance  lodged  deep  in  that 
finest  nerve-work  of  being,  which  no  anodyne 
can  reach — a  pain  that  comes  without  apparent 
cause,  and  is  sought  to  be  expelled  without  con- 
scious effort. 

The  old  man  feared  at  first  that  she  might, 
by  some  means  or  other,  in  his  absence,  have 
become  apprised  of  the  brand  on  his  own  name, 
the  verdict  that  had  blackened  his  repute,  the 
sentence  that  had  hurled  him  from  his  native 
sphere ;  or  that,  as  her  reason  had  insensibly 
matured,  she,  hei-self,  reflecting  on  all  the  mys- 
tery that  surrounded  him — his  incognitos,  his 
hidings,  the  incongruity  between  his  social  grade 
and  his  education  or  bearing,  and  his  repeated 
acknowledgments  that  there  were  charges  against 
him  which  compelled  him  to  concealment,  and 
from  which  he  could  not  be  cleared  on  earth ; 
that  she,  reflecting  on  all  these  evidences  to  his 
disfavor,  had  either  secretly  admitted  into  her 
breast  a  conviction  of  his  guilt,  or  that*  as  she 
grew  up  to  woman,  she  had  felt,  through  him, 
the  disgrace  entailed  upon  herself.  Orif  such 
were  not  the  cause  of  her  sadness,  had  she 
learned  more  of  her  father's  evil  courses ;  had 
any  emissary  of  Jasper's  worked  upon  her  sensi- 
bilities or  her  fears?  No,  that  could  not  be  the 
case,  since  whatever  the  grounds  upon  which 
Jasper  had  conjectured  that  Sophy  was  with 
Lady  Montfort,  the  accuracy  of  his  conjectures 
had  evidently  been  doubted  by  Jasper  himself; 
or  why  so  earnestly  have  questioned  Waife  ? 
Had  she  learned  that  she  was  the  grandchild 
and  natural  heiress  of  a  man  wealthy  and  re- 
no^^Tied — a  chief  among  the  chiefs  of  England 
— who  rejected   her  with   disdain?     Was   she 


pining  for  true  position  ?  or  mortified  by  the 
contempt  of  a  kinsman,  whose  rank  so  contrasted 
the  vagrancy  of  the  grandsire  by  whom  alone 
she  was  acknowledged  ? 

Tormented  by  these  doubts,  he  was  unable  to 
solve  them  by  such  guarded  and  delicate  ques- 
tions as  he  addressed  to  Sophy  herself.  For 
she,  when  he  falteringly  asked  what  ailed  his 
darhng,  would  start,  brighten  up  for  the  mo- 
ment, answer — "Nothing,  now  that  he  had 
come  back ;"  kiss  his  forehead,  play  with  Sir 
Isaac,  and  then  manage  furtively  to  glide  away. 

But  the  day  before  that  in  which  we  now  see 
him  alone,  he  had  asked  her  abruptly,  "  if,  dur- 
ing his  absence,  any  one  besides  George  Morley 
had  visited  at  Lady  Montfort's — any  one  whom 
she  had  seen?'  And  Sophy's  cheek  had  as 
suddenly  become  crimson,  then  deadly  pale ; 
and  first  she  said  '"No,"  and  then  "Yes;"  and 
after  a  pause,  looking  away  from  him,  she  added 
— "  The  young  gentleman  who — who  helped  us 
to  buy  Sir  Isaac,  he  has  visited  Lady  Montfort 
— related  to  some  dear  friend  of  hers." 

"What,  the  painter?" 

"No — the  other,  with  the  dark  eyes." 

"  Haughton  !"  said  Waife,  with  an  expression 
of  great  pain  in  his  face. 

"  Yes — ^Ir.  Haughton  ;  but  he  has  not  been 
here  a  long,  long  time.  He  will  not  come  again, 
I  believe." 

Her  voice  quivered,  despite  herself,  at  the 
last  words,  and  she  began  to  bustle  about  the 
room — filled  Waife's  pipe,  thrust  it  into  his 
hands  with  a  laugh,  the  false  mirth  of  which 
went  to  his  very  heart,  and  then  stejiped  from 
the  open  window  into  the  little  garden,  and  be- 
gan to  sing  one  of  Waife's  favorite  simple  old 
Border  songs ;  but  before  she  got  through  the 
first  line  the  song  ceased,  and  she  was  as  lost 
to  sight  as  a  ring-dove,  whose  note  comes  and 
goes  so  quickly  among  the  impenetrable  coverts. 

But  Waife  had  heard  enough  to  justify  pro- 
found alarm  for  Sophy's  peace  of  mind,  and  to 
waken  in  his  own  heart  some  of  its  most  painful 
associations.  The  reader,  who  knows  the  wrong 
inflicted  on  William  Losely  by  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton's  father — a  wrong  which  had  led  to  all  poor 
Willy's  subsequent  misfortunes — may  conceive 
that  the  very  name  of  Haughton  was  wounding 
to  his  ear;  and  when,  in  his  brief,  sole,  and 
bitter  interview  with  Darrell,  the  latter  had 
dropped  out  that  Lionel  Haughton,  however  dis- 
tant of  kin,  would  be  a  more  grateful  heir  than 
the  grandchild  of  a  convicted  felon — if  Willy's 
sweet  nature  cou/d  have  admitted  a  momentary 
hate — it  would  have  been  for  the  thus  vaunted 
son  of  the  man  who  had  stripped  him  of  the 
modest  all  which  would  perhaps  have  saved  his 
own  child  from  the  robber's  guilt,  and  himself 
from  the  robber's  doom.  Long  since,  therefore, 
the  reader  will  have  comprehended  why,  when 
Waife  came  to  meet  Sophy  at  the  river-side,  and 
learned  at  the  inn  on  its  margin  that  the  name 
of  her  younger  companion  was  Lionel  Haughton 
— why,  I  say,  he  had  so  morosely  parted  from 
the  boy,  and  so  imperiously  bade  Sophy  to  dis- 
miss all  thought  of  meeting  "  the  pretty  young 
gentleman"  again. 

And  now  again  this  very  Lionel  Haughton  to 
have  stolen  into  the  retreat  in  which  poor  Waife 
had  deemed  he  left  his  treasure  so  secure !  Was 
it  for  this  he  had  fled  from  her  ?    Did  he  retmTi 


272 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


to  find  her  youth  blighted,  her  affections  robbed 
from  him,  by  the  son  of  Charles  Haughton  ?  The 
father  had  despoiled  his  manhood  of  independ- 
ence ;  must  it  be  the  son  who  despoiled  his  age 
of  its  only  solace  ?  Grant  even  that  Lionel  was 
worthy  of  Sophy — grant  that  she  had  been  loy- 
ally wooed — must  not  that  attachment  be  fruit- 
less— be  fatal  ?  If  Lionel  were  really  now  adopt- 
ed by  Darrell,  Waife  knew  human  nature  too 
well  to  believe  that  Darrell  would  complacently 
hear  Lionel  ask  a  wife  in  her  whose  claim  to 
his  lineage  had  so  galled  and  incensed  liim.  It 
was  wliile  plunged  in  these  torturing  reflections 
that  Lady  Montfort  (not  many  minutes  after 
Sophy's  song  had  ceased  and  her  form  vanish- 
ed) had  come  to  visit  him,  and  he  at  once  ac- 
costed her  with  agitated  inquiries — "When  had 
Mr.  Haughton  first  presented  himself?  —  how 
often  had  he  seen  iSophy  ? — what  had  passed 
between  them? — did  not  Lady  Montfort  see  that 
his  darling's  heart  was  breaking?" 

But  he  stopped  as  suddenly  as  he  had  rushed 
into  this  thorny  maze  of  questions  ;  for,  looking 
imploringly  into  Caroline  Montfort's  face,  he 
saw  there  more  settled  signs  of  a  breaking  heart 
than  Sophy  had  yet  betrayed,  despite  her  pale- 
ness and  her  sighs.  Sad,  indeed,  the  change  in 
her  countenance  since  he  had  left  the  place 
months  ago,  though  Waife,  absorbed  in  Sophy, 
had  not  much  remarked  it  till  now,  when  seek- 
ing to  read  therein  secrets  that  concerned  his 
darling's  welfare.  Lady  Montfort's  beauty  was 
so  perfect  in  that  rare  harmony  of  feature  which 
poets,  before  Byron,  have  compared  to  music, 
that  sorrow  could  no  more  mar  the  effect  of 
that  beauty  on  the  eye  than  pathos  can  mar  the 
effect  of  the  music  that  admits  it  on  the  ear. 
But  the  change  in  her  face  seemed  that  of  a 
sorrow  which  has  lost  all  earthly  hope.  Waife 
therefore  checked  questions  that  took  the  tone 
of  reproaches,  and  involuntarily  murmured, 
"Pardon." 

Then  Caroline  Montfort  told  him  all  the  ten- 
der projects  she  had  conceived  for  his  grand- 
child's ha])piness — how,  finding  Lionel  so  dis- 
interested and  noble,  she  had  imagined  she  saw 
in  him  the  providential  agent  to  place  Sophy  in 
the  position  to  which  Waife  had  desired  to  raise 
her;  Lionel  to  share  with  her  the  heritage  of 
which  he  might  otherwise  despoil  her — both  to 
become  the  united  source  of  joy  and  of  pride  to 
the  childless  man  who  now  favored  the  one  to 
exclude  the  other.  Nor  in  these  schemes  had 
the  absent  wanderer  been  forgotten.  No ;  could 
Sophy's  virtues  once  be  recognized  by  Darrell, 
and  her  alleged  birth  acknowledged  by  him — 
could  the  guardian  who,  in  fostering  those  vir- 
tues to  bloom  by  Darrell's  hearth,  had  laid  un- 
der the  deepest  obligations  one  who,  if  unfor- 
giving to  treachery,  was  grateful  for  the  hum- 
blest service — could  that  guardian  justify  the 
belief  in  his  innocence  which  George  Morley 
had  ever  entertained,  and,  as  it  now  proved, 
with  reason — then  where  on  all  earth  a  man 
like  Guy  Darrell  to  vindicate  William  Losely's 
attainted  honor,  or  from  whom  William  Losely 
might  accept  cherishing  friendshij)  and  inde- 
pendent ease,  with  so  indisputable  a  right  to 
both !  Such  had  been  the  picture  that  tlie  fond 
and  sanguine  imagination  of  Caroline  Montfort 
had  drawn  from  generous  hope,  and  colored 
with  tender  fancies.     But  alas  for  such  castles 


in  the  air !  All  had  failed.  She  had  only  her- 
self to  blame.  Instead  of  securing  Sophy's  wel- 
fare she  had  endangered  Sophy's  happiness. 
They  whom  she  had  desired  to  unite  were  ir- 
revocably separated.  Bitterly  she  accused  her- 
self— her  error  in  relying  so  much  on  Lionel's 
influence  with  Darrell — on  her  owm  early  re- 
membrance of  Darrell's  affectionate  nature,  and 
singular  sympathies  with  the  young — and  thus 
suffering  Lionel  and  Sophy  to  grow  familiar 
with  each  other's  winning  characters,  and  carry 
on  childlike  romance  into  maturer  sentiment. 
She  spoke,  though  briefly,  of  her  visit  to  Dar- 
rell, and  its  ill  success — of  the  few  letters  that 
had  passed  since  then  between  herself  and 
Lionel,  in  which  it  was  settled  that  he  should 
seek  no  parting  interview  with  Sophy ._  He  had 
declared  to  Sophy  no  formal  suit — they  had  ex- 
changed no  lovers'  vows.  It  would  be,  there- 
fore, but  a  dishonorable  cruelty  to  her  to  say, 
"  I  come  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  and  that 
we  must  part  forever."  And  how  avow  the 
reason — that  reason  that  would  humble  her  to 
the  dust  ?  Lionel  was  forbidden  to  wed  with 
one  whom  Jasper  Losely  called  daughter,  and 
whom  the  guardian  she  so  venerated  believed 
to  be  his  grandchild.  All  of  comfort  that  Lady 
Montfort  could  suggest  was,  that  Sophy  was  so 
young  that  she  would  conquer  what  might  be 
but  a  girl's  romantic  sentiment — or,  if  a  more 
serious  attachment,  one  that  no  troth  had  ce- 
mented— for  a  person  she  might  not  see  again 
for  years ;  Lionel  was  negotiating  exchange 
into  a  regiment  on  active  service.  "  Mean- 
while," said  Lady  Montfort,  "I  shall  never  wed 
again.  I  shall  make  it  known  that  I  look  on 
your  Sophy  as  the  child  of  my  adoption.  If  I 
do  not  live  to  save  sufiicient  for  her  out  of  an 
income  that  is  more  than  thrice  what  I  require, 
I  have  instructed  my  lawyers  to  insure  my  life 
for  her  provision ;  it  will  be  ample.  Many  a 
wooer,  captivating  as  Lionel,  and  free  from  the 
scruples  that  fetter  his  choice,  will  be  proud  to 
kneel  at  the  feet  of  one  so  lovely.  This  rank 
of  mine,  which  has  never  yet  bestowed  on  me  a 
joy,  now  becomes  of  value,  since  it  will  give 
dignity  to — to  Matilda's  child,  and — and  to — " 

Lady  Montfort  sobbed. 

Waife  listened  respectfully,  and  for  the  time 
was  comforted.  Certainly,  in  his  own  heart  he 
v.as  glad  that  Lionel  Haughton  was  permanently 
separated  from  Sophy.  There  was  scarcely  a 
man  on  earth,  of  fair  station  and  repute,  to  whom 
he  would  have  surrendered  Sophy  with  so  keen 
a  pang  as  to  Charles  Haughton's  son. 

The  poor  young  lovers  1  all  the  stars  seemed 
against  them !  Was  it  not  enough  th^it  Guy 
Darrell  should  be  so  obdurate?  must  the  mild 
William  Losely  be  also  a  malefic  in  their  horo- 
scope ? 

But  when,  that  same  evening,  the  old  man 
more  observantly  than  ever  watched  his  grand- 
child, his  comfort  vanished — misgivings  came 
over  him — he  felt  assured  that  the  fatal  shaft 
had  been  broken  in  the  wound,  and  that  the 
heart  was  bleeding  inly. 

True ;  not  without  prophetic  insight  had  Ara- 
bella Crane  said  to  the  pining,  but  resolute, 
quiet  child,  behind  the  scenes  of  Mr.  Rugge's 
show,  "  How  much  you  will  love  one  day  !"  All 
that  night  Waife  lay  awake,  pondering — revolv- 
ing— exhausting  that  wondrous  fertility  of  re- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


273 


source  which  teemed  in  liis  inventive  brain.     In 
vain ! 

And  now — (the  day  after  this  conversation 
with  Lady  ISIontfort,  whose  illness  grieves,  but 
does  not  surprise  him) — now,  as  he  sits  and 
thinks,  and  gazes  abstractedly  into  that  far,  pale, 
winter  sky — now,  the  old  man  is  still  scheming 
how  to  reconcile  a  human  loving  heart  to  the 
eternal  loss  of  that  atfection  which  has  so  many 
perisliable  counterfeits,  but  which,  when  true  in 
all  its  elements  —  complete  in  all  its  varied 
Mcalth  of  feeling — is  never  to  be  forgotten,  and 
never  to  be  replaced. 


CHAPTER  n. 

An  offering  to  the  Manes. 
Three  sides  of  Waife's  cottage  weie  within 
Ladj-  Montfort's  grounds  ;  the  fourth  side,  with 
its  more  public  entrance,  bordered  the  lane. 
Now,  as  he  thus  sate,  he  was  startled  by  a  low 
timid  ring  at  the  door  which  opened  on  the 
lane.  Who  could  it  be  ? — not  Jasper !  He  be- 
gan to  tremble.  The  ring  was  repeated.  One 
woman-servant  composed  all  his  establishment. 
He  heard  her  opening  the  door — heard  a  low 
voice ;  it  seemed  a  soft,  fresh  young  voice.  His 
room-door  opened,  and  the  woman,  who,  of 
course,  knew  the  visitor  by  sight  and  name,  hav- 
ing often  remarked  him  on  the  grounds  with 
Lady  Montfort  and  Sophy,  said,  in  a  cheerful 
tone,  as  if  bringing  good  news,  "Mr.  Lionel 
Haughton." 

Scarcely  was  the  door  closed — scarcely  tlie 
young  man  in  the  room,  before,  with  all  his  de- 
lightful, passionate  frankness,  Lionel  had  clasjjed 
Waife's  reluctant  hand  in  both  his  own,  and, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  choking  in  his  voice, 
was  pouring  forth  sentences  so  loosely  knit  to- 
gether, that  they  seemed  almost  incoherent ; — 
now  a  burst  of  congratulation — now  a  falter  of 
condolence — now  words  that  seemed  to  suppli- 
cate as  for  pardon  to  an  offense  of  his  own — 
rapid  transitions  from  enthusiasm  to  pity — from 
joy  to  grief — variable,  with  the  stormy  April  of 
a  young,  fresh,  hearty  nature. 

Taken  so  wholly  by  surprise,  Waife,  in  vain 
attempting  to  appear  cold  and  distant,  and  only 
very  vaguely  comprehending  what  the  unwel- 
come visitor  so  confusedly  expressed,  at  last 
found  voice  to  interrupt  the  jet  and  gush  of 
Lionel's  impetuous  emotions,  and  said  as  dryly 
as  he  could,  "I  am  really  at  a  loss  to  conceive 
the  cause  of  what  appears  to  be  meant  as  con- 
gi'atulations  to  me  and  reproaches  to  yourself, 
I^Ir. — ^Ir.  Hauglit — ";  his  lips  could  not  com- 
plete the  distasteful  name. 

"  My  name  shocks  you--no  wonder,"  said 
Lionel,  deeply  mortified,  and  bowing  down  his 
head  as  he  gently  dropped  the  old  man's  hand. 
"Reproaches  to  myself  1 — Ah,  Sir,  lam  here  as 
Charles  Haughton's  son !" 

"What!"   exclaimed    Waife,    "you    know? 
How  could  you  know  that  Charles  Haughton — " 
Lionel  (interrupting).   "I  know!     His  own 
lips  confessed  his  shame  to  have  so  injured  you." 
Waife.  "  Confessed  to  whom?" 
Lionel.  "To  Alban  Morley.     Believe  me, 
my  father's  remorse  was  bitter;  it  dies  not  in 
his  grave,  it  lives  in  me.     I  have  so  longed  to 
meet  with  William  Losely." 
S 


Waife  seated  himself  in  silence,  shading  his 
face  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he 
made  a  slight  gesture,  as  if  to  discourage  or  re- 
buke farther  allusion  to  ancient  wrong.  Lionel, 
in  quick  accents,  but  more  connected  meaning, 
went  on — 

"  I  have  just  eome  from  Mr.  Dan-ell,  where  I 
and  Colonel  3Iorley  (here  Lionel's  countenance 
was  darkly  troubled)  have  been  staying  some 
days.  Two  days  ago  I  received  this  letter  from 
George  Morley,  fonvarded  to  me  from  London. 
It  says — let  me  read  it — 'You  will  rejoice  to 
learn  that  our  dear  Waife' — pardon  that  name." 

"I  Iiave  no  other — go  on." 

"Is  once  more  with  his  grandchild."  (Here 
Lionel  sighed  heavily — sigh  like  Sophy's.)  ' '  You 
will  rejoice  yet  more  to  learn  that  it  has  pleased 
Heaven  to  allow  me  and  another  witness,  who, 
some  years  ago,  had  been  misled  into  condemn- 
ing Waife,  to  be  enabled  to  bear  incontroverti- 
ble testimony  to  the  complete  innocence  of  my 
beloved  friend;  nay,  more — I  say  to  you  most 
solemnly,  that  in  all  which  appeared  to  attest 
guilt  there  has  been  a  virtue,  which,  if  known 
to  Mr.  Darrell,  would  make  him  bow  in  rever- 
ence to  that  old  man.  Tell  Mr.  Darrell  so  from 
me;  and  add,  that  in  saying  it,  I  expressed  my 
conviction  of  his  own  admiring  sympathy  for  all 
that  is  noble  and  heroic." 

"Too  much — this  is  too,  too  much,"  stam 
mered  out  Waife,  restlessly  turning  away ;  "  but 
— but,  you  are  folding  up  the  letter.  That  is 
all  ? — he  does  not  say  more  ? — he  does  not  men- 
tion any  one  else? — eh — eh?" 

"No",  Sir;  that  is  all." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  He  is  an  honorable  man! 
Yet  he  has  said  more  than  he  ought  —  much 
more  than  lie  can  jirove,  or  than  I — "  He  broke 
off,  and  abruptly  asked,  "  How  did  jNIr.  Darrell 
take  these  assertions?  With  an  incredulous 
laugh — eh  ? — '  Why,  the  old  rogue  had  pleaded 
guilty !' " 

"  Sir,  Alban  ]\Iorley  was  there  to  speak  of 
the  William  Losely  whom  he  had  known ;  to 
explain,  from  facts  which  he  had  collected  at 
the  time,  of  what  natm-e  was  the  evidence  not 
brought  forward.  The  motive  that  induced  you 
to  plead  guilty  I  had  long  guessed ;  it  flashed 
in  an  instant  on  Guy  Darrell ;  it  was  not  mere 
guess  with  him !  You  ask  me  what  he  said  ? 
This :  '  Grand  nature !  George  is  rights  and  I 
do  bow  my  head  in  reverence !'  " 

"  He  said  that  ? — Guy  Darrell  ?  On  your  hon- 
or, he  said  that  ?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  ?    Is  he  not  a  gentleman  ?" 

Waife  was  fairly  overcome. 

"But,  Sir,"  resumed  Lionel,  "I  must  not  con- 
ceal from  you,  that,  though  George's  letter  and 
Alban  ]Morley's  communications  suiBced  to  sat- 
isfy Darrell,  without  farther  question,  your  old 
friend  was  naturally  anxious  to  learn  a  more 
full  account,  in  the  hope  of  legally  substantia- 
ting your  innocence.  He  therefore  dispatched 
by  the  telegraph  ai-equest  to  his  nephew  to  come 
at  once  to  Fawley.  George  arrived  there  yes- 
terday. Do  not  blame  him.  Sir,  that  we  share 
his  secret." 

"  You  do  ?  Good  Heavens  !  And  that  law- 
yer will  be  barbarous  enough  too ;  but  no — he 
has  an  interest  in  not  accusing  of  midnight  rob- 
bery his  daughter's  husband;  Jasper's  secret  is 
safe  with  him.     And  Colonel  Morley  —  surely 


274 


WHAT  AVILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


his  cruel  nephew  will  not  suffer  him  to  make 
me — me,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave — a  witness 
against  my  Lizzy's  son!" 

"Colonel  Morley,  at  Darrell's  suggestion, 
came  with  me  to  London ;  and  if  he  does  not 
accompany  me  to  you,  it  is  because  he  is  even 
now  busied  in  finding  out  your  son,  not  to  undo, 
but  to  complete,  the  purpose  of  youi'  self-sacri- 
fice. '  All  other  considerations,'  said  Guy  Dar- 
rell,  '  must  be  merged  in  this  one  thought — that 
such  a  father  shall  not  have  been  in  vain  a  mar- 
tyr.' Colonel  Morley  is  empowered  to  treat 
with  your  son  on  any  terms;  but  on  this  condi- 
tion, that  the  rest  of  his  life  shall  inflict  no  far- 
ther pain,  no  farther  fear  on  you.  This  is  the 
sole  use  to  which,  without  your  consent,  we  have 
presumed  to  put  the  secret  we  have  learned. 
Do  you  pardon  George  now  ?" 

Waife's  lips  murmured  inaudibly,  but  his  face 
grew  very  bright;  and  as  it  was  i-aised  upward, 
Lionel's  ear  caught  the  whisper  of  a  name — it 
was  not  Jasper,  it  was  "Lizzy." 

"  Ah  I  why,"  said  Lionel,  sadly,  and  after  a 
short  pause,  '•  why  was  I  not  permitted  to  be  the 
one  to  attest  your  innocence  —  to  clear  your 
name?  I,  who  owed  to  you  so  vast  an  hered- 
itarv  debt  I     And  now  —  dear,  dear  Mr.  Lose- 

"  Hush !  Waife  I — call  me  Waife  still  I — and 
always." 

• '  Willingly !  It  is  the  name  by  which  I  have 
accustomed  myself  to  love  you.  Now,  listen  to 
me.  I  am  dishonored  until  at  least  the  mere 
pecuniary  debt,  due  to  you  from  my  father,  is 
paid.  Hist  I  hist  I  —  Alban  Morley  says  so  — 
Darrell  says  so.  Darrell  says  '  he  can  not  own 
me  as  kinsman  till  that  debt  is  canceled.'  Dar- 
rell lends  me  the  means  to  do  it ;  he  would 
share  his  kinsman's  ignominy  if  he  did  not.  Be- 
fore I  could  venture  even  to  come  hither,  the 
sum  due  to  you  from  my  father  was  repaid.  I 
hastened  to  town  yesterday  evening — saw  Mr. 
Darrell's  lawyer.  I  have  taken  a  great  liberty 
— I  have  invested  this  sum  already  in  the  pur- 
chase of  an  annuity  for  yon.  Mr.  Darrell's  law- 
yer had  a  client  who  was  in  immediate  want  of 
the  sum  due  to  you ;  and,  not  wishing  perma- 
nently to  burden  his  estate  by  mortgage,  would 
give  a  larger  interest  by  way  of  annuity  than 
the  public  oSices  would ;  excellent  landed  se- 
curity. .  The  lawyer  said  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
let  the  opportunity  slip,  so  I  ventured  to  act  for 
you.  It  was  all  settled  this  morning.  The  par- 
ticulars are  on  this  paper,  Avhich  I  will  leave  mth 
you.  Of  course  the  sum  due  to  you  is  not  ex- 
actly the  same  as  that  which  my  father  borrowed 
before  I  was  born.  There  is  the  interest — com- 
pound interest ;  nothing  more.  I  don't  under- 
stand such  matters  ;  Darrell's  lawyer  made  the 
calculation — it  must  be  right." 

Waife  had  taken  the  paper,  glanced  at  its  con- 
tents, dropped  it  in  confusion,  amaze.  Those 
hundreds  lent  swelled  into  all  those  thousands 
returned!  And  all  methodically  computed  — 
tersely — arithmetically — down  to  fractions.  So 
that  every  farthing  seemed,  and  indeed  was,  his 
lawful  due.  And  that  sum  invested  in  an  an- 
nuity of  £500  a  year! — income  which,  to  poor 
Gentleman  Waife,  seemed  a  prince's  revenue ! 

"It  is  quite  a  business-like  computation,  I  tell 
you,  Sir;  all  done  by  a  lawyer.  It  is  indeed," 
cried  Lionel,  dismayed  at  Waife's  look  and  ges- 


ture. '■  Compound  interest  icill  run  up  to  what 
seems  a  large  amount  at  first ;  every  child  knows 
that.  You  can't  deny  Cocker  and  calculating 
tables,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  William  Losely, 
you  can  not  leave  an  eternal  load  of  disgrace  on 
the  head  of  Charles  Haughton's  son." 

"  Poor  Charlie  Haughton,"  murmured  Waife. 
"  And  I  was  feeling  bitter  against  his  memory 
— bitter  against  his  son.  How  Heaven  loves  to 
teach  us  the  injustice  that  dwells  in  anger !  But 
— but — this  can  not  be.  I  thank  Mr.  Darrell 
humbly — I  can  not  take  his  money." 

"It  is  not  his  mone}' — it  is  mine;  he  only 
advances  it  to  me.  It  costs  him  really  nothing, 
for  he  deducts  the  £500  a  year  from  the  allow- 
ance he  makes  me.  And  I  don't  want  such  an 
absurd  allowancfe  as  I  had  before  going  out  of 
the  Guards  into  the  line — I  mean  to  be  a  sol- 
dier in  good  earnest.  Too  much  pocket-money 
spoils  a  soldier — only  gets  one  into  scrapes. 
Alban  Morley  says  the  same.  Darrell,  too, 
says  'Right,  no  gold  could  buy  a  luxury  like 
the  payment  of  a  father's  debt!'  You  can  not 
grudge  me  that  luxury — you  dare  not ! — why  ? 
because  you  are  an  honest  man." 

"Softly,  softly,  softly,"  said  Waife.  "Let 
me  look  at  you.  Don't  talk  of  money  now — 
don't  let  us  think  of  money !  What  a"  look  of 
your  father!  'Tis  he,  'tis  he,  whom  I  see  be- 
fore me!  Charlie's  sweet  bright  playful  eyes — 
that  might  have  turned  aside  from  the  path  of 
duty — a  sheriff's  officer !  Ah!  and  Charlie's 
happy  laugh,  too,  at  the  slightest  joke !  But 
this  is  not  Charlie's — it  is  all  your  own  (touching, 
with  gentle  finger,  Lionel's  broad  truthful  brow). 
Poor  Charlie,  he  was  grieved — you  are  right — ^I 
remember." 

"  Sir,"  said  Lionel,  who  was  now  on  one  knee 
by  Waife's  chair — "  Sir,  I  have  never  yet  asked 
man  for  his  blessing — not  even  Guy  Darrell. 
Will  you  put  your  hand  on  my  head ;  and  oh! 
that  in  the  mystic  world  beyond  us.  some  angel 
may  tell  Charles  Haughton  "that  William  Losely 
has  blessed  his  son  I" 

Solemnly,  but  with  profound  humility — one 
hand  on  the  Bible  beside  him,  one  on  the  young 
soldier's  bended  head— William  Losely  blessed 
Charles  Haughton's  son — and,  having  done  so, 
involuntarily  his  arms  opened,  and  blessing  was 
followed  by  embrace. 


CHAPTER  m. 

Xothing  so  obstinate  as  a  young  man's  hope ;  nothing  so 
eloquent  as  a  lover's  tongue. 

Hitherto  there  had  been  no  reference  to 
Sophy.  Not  Sophy's  lover,  but  Charles  Haugh- 
ton's son  had  knelt  to  Waife  and  received  the 
old  man's  blessing.  But  Waife  could  not  be 
long  forgetful  of  his  darling — nor  his  anxiety  on 
her  account.  The  expression  in  his  varying 
face  changed  suddenly.  Not  half  an  hour  be- 
fore, Lionel  Haughton  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  whom  willingly  he  would  have  consigned 
his  grandchild.  Now,  of  all  men  in  the  world 
Lionel  Haughton  would  have  been  his  choice. 
He  sighed  heavily ;  he  comprehended,  by  his 
own  changed  feelings,  how  tender  and  profound 
an  affection  Lionel  Haughton  might  inspire  in 
a  heart  so  fresh  as  Sophy's,  and  so  tenacious  of 
the  impressions  it  received.     But  they  were  sep- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


275 


arated  forever ;  she  ought  not  even  again  to  see 
him.  Uneasily  Waife  glanced  toward  the  open 
window — rose  involuntarily,  closed  it,  and  drew 
down  the  blind. 

'•  You  must  go  now,  roung  gentleman,"  said 
he,  almost  churlishly. 

The  quick  lover's  sense  in  Lionel  divined  why 
the  blind  was  drawn,  and  the  dismissal  so  ab- 
ruptly given. 

"Give  me  your  address,"  said  Waife ;  "  I  will 
write  about — that  paper.  Don't  now  stay  lon- 
ger— pray — pray." 

"  Do  not  fear'.  Sir.     I  am  not  lingering  here 
with  the  wish  to  see — her  /" 
Waife  looked  down. 

'•  Before  I  asked  the  servant  to  announce  me, 
I  took  the  precaution  to  learn  that  you  were 
alone.  But  a  few  words  more — hear  them  pa- 
tiently. Have  you  any  proof  that  could  satisfy 
Mr.  DaiTcU's  reason  that  your  Sophy  is  his  daugh- 
ter's child?" 

"  I  have  Jasper's  assurance  that  she  is ;  and 
the  copy  of  the  nurse's  attestation  to  the  same 
effect.  They  satisfied  me.  I  would  not  have 
asked  Mr.  Darrell  to  be  as  easily  contented  ;  I 
could  but  have  asked  him  to  inquire,  and  satis- 
fy himself.  Bat  he  would  not  even  hear  me." 
"  He  will  hear  you  now,  and  with  respect." 
"  He  will  I"  cried  Waife,  joyously.  "And  if 
he  should  inquire,  and  if  Sophy  should  prove  to 
be,  as  I  have  ever  believed,  his  daughter's  child, 
would  he  not  own,  andreceive,  and  cherish  her?" 
"  Alas  !  Sir,  do  not  let  me  pain  you  ;  but  that 
is  not  my  hope.  If,  indeed,  it  should  prove  that 
your  son  deceived  you — that  Sophy  is  no  way 
related  to  him — if  she  should  be  the  cliild  of 
peasants,  but  of  honest  peasants — why,  Sir,  that 
is  my  hope,  my  last  hope  —  for  then  I  would 
kneel  once  more  at  your  feet,  and  implore  your 
permission  to  win  her  affection  and  ask  her 
hand," 

"  What !  Mr.  Darrell  would  consent  to  yonr 
union  with  the  child  of  peasants,  and  not  with 
his  own  grandchild  ?" 

"  Sir,  Sir,  you  rack  me  to  the  heart;  but  if 
you  knew  all,  you  would  not  wonder  to  hear  me 
say,  '  I  dare  not  ask  Mr.  Darrell  to  bless  ray 
union  with  the  daughter  of  Jasper  Losely.'" 

Waife  suppressed  a  groan,  and  began  to  pace 
the  room  with  disordered  steps. 

"  But,"  resumed  Lionel,  "  go  to  Fawley  your- 
self. Seek  Darrell ;  compare  the  reasons  for 
your  belief  with  his  for  rejecting  it.  At  this 
moment  his  pride  is  more  subdued  than  I  have 
ever  known  it.  He  will  go  calmly  into  the  in- 
vestigation of  facts  ;  the  truth  will  become  clear. 
Sir — dear,  dear  Sir — I  am  not  without  a  hope." 
"A  hope  that  the  child  I  have  so  cherished 
should  be  nothing  in  the  world  to  mc!" 

'•  Nothing  to  you !  Is  memory  such  a  shadow? 
— is  affection  such  a  weathercock?  Has  the 
love  between  you  and  Sophy  been  only  the  in- 
stinct of  kindred  blood  ?  Has  it  not  been  hal- 
lowed by  al!  that  makes  A^q  and  Childhood  so 
pure  a  blessing  to  each  other,  i-ooted  in  trials 
borne  together?  Were  you  not  the  first  who 
taught  her,  in  wanderings,  in  privations,  to  see 
a  Mother  in  Nature,  and  pray  to  a  Father  which 
is  in  Heaven  ?  Would  all  this  be  blotted  out  of 
your  souls  if  she  were  not  the  child  of  that  son 
whom  it  chills  you  to  remember?  Sir,  if  there 
be  no  tie  to  replace  the  mere  bond  of  kindred. 


why  have  you  taken  such  vigilant  pains  to  sep- 
arate a  child  from  him  whom  you  believe  to  be 
her  father  ?" 

Waife  stood  motionless  and  voiceless.  This 
passionate  appeal  struck  him  forcibly. 

"  And,  Sir,"  added  Lionel,  in  a  lower,  sadder 
tone — "  can  I  ask  you,  whose  later  life  has  been 
one  sublime  self-sacrifice,  whether  you  would 
rather  that  you  might  call  Sophy  grandchild, 
and  knov.-  her  wretched,  than  know  her  but  as 
the  infant  angel  whom  Heaven  sent  to  your  side 
when  bereaved  and  desolate,  and  know  also  that 
she  was  happy  ?  Oh,  William  Losely,  pray  with 
me  that  Sophy  may  not  be  your  grandchild. 
Her  home  will  not  be  less  your  home — her  at- 
tachment will  not  less  replace  to  you  your  lost 
son — and  on  your  knee  her  children  may  learn 
to  lisp  the  same  prayers  that  you  taught  to  her. 
Go  to  Darrell — go — go  I  and  take  me  with  you !" 

"I  will  —  I  will  I"  exclaimed  Waife;  and 
snatching  at  his  hat  and  staft' — "Come — come! 
But  Sophy  should  not  learn  that  you  have  been 
here — that  I  have  gone  away  with  you ;  it  might 
set  her  thinking,  dreaming,  hoping — all  to  end 
in  greater  sorrow."  He  bustled  out  of  the  room 
to  caution  the  old  woman,  and  to  write  a  few 
hasty  lines  to  Sophy  herself — assuring  her,  on 
his  most  solemn  honor,  that  he  was  not  now  fly- 
ing from  her  to  resume  his  vagrant  life — that, 
without  fail,  please  Heaven,  he  would  return 
that  night  or  the  next  day. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  reopened  the  room  door, 
beckoning  silently  to  Lionel,  and  then  stole  into 
the  quiet  lane  with  quick  steps. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Guy  Barren's  views  in  tlie  invitation  to  Waife. 

Lionel  had  but  inadequately  represented,  for 
he  could  but  imperfectly  comprehend,  the  pro- 
found impression  made  upon  Guy  Darrell  by 
George  Morley's  disclosures.  Himself  so  capa- 
ble of  self-sacrifice,  Darrell  was  the  man  above 
all  others  to  regard  with  an  admiring  reverence, 
which  partook  of  awe,  a  self-immolation  that 
seemed  almost  above  humanity — to  him  who 
set  so  lofty  an  estimate  on  good  name  and 
fair  repute.  He  had  not  only  willingly  permit- 
ted, but  even  urged  Lionel  to  repair  to  Waife, 
and  persuade  the  old  man  to  come  to  Fawley. 
With  Waife  he  was  prepared  to  enter  into  the 
full  discussion  of  Sophy's  alleged  parentage. 
But  apart  even  from  considerations  that  touched 
a  cause  of  perplexity  which  disquieted  himself, 
Darrell  was  eager  to  see  and  to  show  homage  to 
the  sufferer,  in  whom  he  recognized  a  Ijero's 
dignity.  And  if  he  had  sent  by  Lionel  no  let- 
ter from  himself  to  Waife,  it  was  only  because, 
in  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  feeling  that  belonged 
to  him  when  his  best  emotions  were  aroused,  he 
felt  it  just  that  the  whole  merit,  and  the  whole 
delight  of  reparation  to  the  wrongs  of  William 
Losely,  should,  without  direct  interposition  of 
his  own,  be  left  exclusively  to  Charles  Haugh- 
ton's  son.  Thus  far  it  will  be  acknowledged 
that  Guy  Darrell  was  not  one  of  those  men 
who,  once  warmed  to  magnanimous  impulse,  are 
cooled  by  a  thrifty  prudence  when  action  grows 
out  of  the  impulse.  Guy  Darrell  could  not  be 
generous  by  drachm  and  scruple.     Not  apt  to 


276 


WHAT  AVILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


say,  "I  apologize"  —  slow  to  say,  "I  repent;" 
very — very — very  slow  indeed  to  say.  "I  for- 
give;" yet  let  him  once  say,  "I  repent,"  "I 
apologize,"  or  "  I  forgive,"  and  it  was  said  with 
his  whole  heart  and  soul. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that,  in  authoriz- 
ing Lionel  to  undertake  the  embassy  to  Waife, 
or  in  the  anticipation  of  what  might  pass  be- 
tween Waife  and  himself  should  the  former 
consent  to  revisit  the  old  house  from  which 
he  had  been  so  scornfully  driven,  Darrell  had 
altered,  or  dreamed  of  altering,  one  iota  of  his 
resolves  against  a  union  between  Lionel  and 
Sophy.  True,  Lionel  had  induced  him  to  say, 
"Could  it  be  indisputably  proved  that  no  drop 
of  Jasper  Losely's  blood  were  in  this  girl's  veins 
— that  she  were  the  lawful  child  of  honest  par- 
ents, however  humble — my  right  to  stand  be- 
tween her  and  yourself  would  cease."  But  a 
lawyer's  experience  is  less  credulous  than  a 
lover's  hope.  And  to  Darrell's  judgment  it  was 
wholly  improbable  that  any  honest  parents,  how- 
ever humble,  sliould  have  yielded  their  child  to 
a  knave  like  Jasjjer,  while  it  was  so  probable 
that  his  own  persuasion  was  well-founded,  and 
that  she  was  Jasper's  daughter,  though  not  Ma- 
tilda's. 

The  winter-evening  had  closed.  George  and 
Darrell  were  conversing  in  the  library;  the 
theme,  of  course,  was  Waife  ;  and  Darrell  list- 
ened with  vivid  interest  to  George's  graphic  ac- 
counts of  the  old  man's  gentle,  playful  humor 
— with  its  vague  desultory  under-currents  of 
poetic  fancy  or  subtle  wisdom.  But  when 
George  turned  to  s])eak  of  Sophy's  endearing, 
lovely  nature,  and,  though  cautiously,  to  inti- 
mate an  appeal  on  her  behalf  to  Darrell's  sense 
of  duty,  or  susceptibility  to  kindly  emotions,  the 
proud  man's  brow  became  knit,  and  his  stately 
air  evinced  displeasure.  Fortunately,  just  at  a 
moment  when  farther  words  might  have  led  to 
a  permanent  coldness  between  men  so  disposed 
to  esteem  each  other,  they  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  frosty  ground — the  shrill  bell  at 
the  porch-door. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  vagabond  received  in  the  Manor  House  at  Fawley. 

Very  lamely,  very  feebly,  declining  Lionel's 
arm,  but  leaning  heavily  on  his  crutch-stick, 
Waife  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Manor  House. 
George  sprang  fonvard  to  welcome  him.  The 
old  man  looked  on  the  preacher's  face  with  a 
kind  of  wandering  uncertainty  in  his  eye,  and 
George  saw  that  his  cheek  was  very  much  flushed. 
He  limped  on  through  the  hall,  still  leaning  on 
his  staff,  George  and  Lionel  at  either  side.  A 
pace  or  two,  and  there  stood  Darrell!  Did  he, 
the  host,  not  s})ring  forward  to  offer  an  arm,  to 
extend  a  hand!  No,  such  greeting  in  Darrell 
would  have  been  but  vulgar  courtesy.  As  the 
old  man's  eye  rested  on  him,  the  superb  gentle- 
man bowed  low — bowed  as  we  bow  to  kings ! 

They  entered  the  library.  Darrell  made  a 
sign  to  George  and  Lionel.  They  understood 
the  sign,  and  left  visitor  and  host  alone. 

Lionel  drew  George  into  the  quaint  old  din- 
ing-hall.  "I  am  verj'  uneasy  about  our  dear 
friend,"  he  said,  in  agitated  accents.  "  I  fear 
that  I  have  had  too  little  consideration  for  his 


years  and  his  sensitive  nature,  and  that,  what 
with  the  excitement  of  the  conversation  that 
passed  between  us,  and  the  fatigue  of  the  jour- 
ney, his  nerves  have  broken  down.  We  were 
not  half-way  on  the  road,  and  as  we  had  the  rail- 
way carriage  to  ourselves,  I  was  talking  to  him 
with  imprudent  earnestness,  when  he  began  to 
tremble  all  over,  and  went  into  a  hysterical 
paroxysm  of  mingled  tears  and  laughter.  I 
wished  to  stop  at  the  next  station,  but  he  was 
not  long  recovering,  and  insisted  on  coming  on. 
Still,  as  we  approached  Fawley,  after  muttering 
to  himself,  as  far  as  I  could  catch  his  words,  in- 
coherently, he  sank  into  a  heavy  state  of  lethargy 
or  stupor,  resting  his  head  on  my  shoulder.  It 
was  with  difficulty  I  roused  him  when  he  en- 
tered the  park."  ~- 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  George,  feelingly ;  "  no 
doubt  the  quick  succession  of  emotions  through 
which  he  has  lately  passed  has  overcome  him 
for  the  time.  But  the  worst  is  now  past.  His 
interview  with  Darrell  must  cheer  his  heart  and 
soothe  his  spirits ;  and  that  interview  over,  we 
must  give  him  all  repose  and  nursing.  But  tell 
me  what  passed  between  you — if  he  was  very 
indignant  that  I  could  not  suffer  men  like  you 
and  my  uncle  Alban,  and  Guy  Darrell,  to  be- 
lieve him  a  pick-lock  and  a  thief?" 

Lionel  began  his  narrative,  but  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  in  it  before  Darrell's  voice  was  heard 
shouting  loud  and  the  library  bell  rang  vio- 
lently. 

They  hurried  into  the  library,  and  Lionel's 
fears  were  verified.  Waife  was  in  strong  con- 
vulsions ;  and  as  these  gradually  ceased,  and  he 
rested  without  struggle,  half  on  the  floor,  half 
in  Darrell's  arms,  he  was  evidently  unconscious 
of  all  around  him.  His  eye  was  open,  but  fixed 
in  a  glassy  stare.  The  servants  thronged  into 
the  room  ;  one  was  dispatched  instantly  to  sum- 
mon the  nearest  medical  practitioner.  "Help 
me — George — Lionel,"  said  Darrell,  "to  bear 
him  up  stairs.  Mills,  light  us."  When  they 
reached  the  landing-place.  Mills  asked,  ''Which 
room,  Sir?" 

Darrell  hesitated  an  instant,  then  his  gray 
eye  lit  into  its  dark  fire.  "  ]\Iy  father's  room — 
he  sliall  rest  on  my  father's  bed." 

When  the  surgeon  arrived,  he  declared  Waife 
to  be  in  imminent  danger — pressure  on  the  brain. 
He  prescribed  prom]]t  and  vigorous  remedies, 
which  had  indeed  before  the  surgeon's  arrival 
suggested  themselves  to,  and  been  partly  com- 
menced by,  Darrell,  M'ho  had  gone  through  too 
many  varieties  of  experience  to  be  unversed  in 
the  rudiments  of  leeehcraft.  "If  I  were  in  my 
guest's  state,"  asked  Darrell  of  the  practitioner, 
"what  would  you  do?" 

"Telegraph  instantly  for  Dr.  F ." 

"  Lionel — you  hear?  Take  my  own  horse — 
he  will  carry  you  like  the  wind.  Off  to  *  *  *  * ; 
it  is  the  nearest  telegraph  station." 

Darrell  did  not  stir  from  Waifc's  bedside  all 

that  anxious  night.     Dr.  F did  not  arrive 

till  morning.  He  approved  of  all  that  had  been 
done,  but  nevertheless  altered  the  treatment ; 
and  after  staying  some  hours,  said  to  Darrell, 
"  I  am  compelled  f  o  leave  you  for  the  present ; 
nor  could  I  be  of  use  in  staying.  I  have  given 
all  the  aid  in  my  power  to  Nature — we  must 
leave  the  rest  to  Nature  herself.  That  fever — 
those  fierce  throes   and  spasms — are  but  Na- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


ture's  efforts  to  cast  off  the  grasp  of  the  enemy  gre«-  almost  clear  to  her.  Was  not  ]\rr.  Darrell 
we  do  not  see.  It  now  depends  on  what  decp-ee  that  relation  to  her  lost  mother  upon  Avhom  she 
of  rallying  power  be  left  to  the  patient.  For-  ,  had  claims  not  hitherto  conceded?  Lionel  and 
tunately,  his  frame  is  robust,  yet  not  plethoric,  j  Waife  both  with  that  relation  now!  Surelv  the 
Do  you  know  his  habits?"  i  clouds  that  had  rested  on  her  future  were  ad- 

"I  know,"  answered  George;    "most  tern-    mitting  the  sun  through  their  opening  rents — 
perate,  most  innocent."  and  she  blushed  as  she  caught  its  ray. 

"  Then,  with  constant  care,  minute  attention 
to  my  directions,  he  may  recover." 

"  If  care  and  attention  can  save  my  guest's 
life  he  shall  not  die,"  said  Darrell. 

The  physician  looked  at  the  speaker's  pale 
face  and  compressed  lips.  "But,  Mr.  Darrell, 
I  must  not  have  you  on  my  hands  too.  You 
must  not  be  out  of  your  bed  again  to-night." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  George.  "  I  shall 
watch  alone." 

'•  No,"  cried  Lionel,  "  that  is  my  post,  too." 

"  I'ooh !"  said  Darrell;  "young  men  so  far 
from  Death  are  not  such  watchful  sentinels 
against  his  stroke  as  men  of  my  years,  who 
have  seen  him  in  all  aspects ;  and,  moreover, 
base  indeed  is  the  host  who  deserts  his  own 
guest's  sick-chamber.  Fear  not  for  me,  doc- 
tor; no  man  needs  sleep  less  than  I  do." 

Dr.  F slid  his  hand  on  Darrell's  pulse. 

"Irregular  —  quick;  but  what  vitality'!  what 
power  1 — a  young  man's  pulse !  Mr.  Darrell, 
many  years  for  your  country's  service  are  yet  in 
these  lusty  beats." 

Darrell  breathed  his  chronic  sigh,  and,  turn- 
ing back  to  Waife's  bedside,  said,  "  When  will 
you  come  again?" 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow." 

When  the  doctor  returned  "^Yaife  was  out  of 
immediate  danger.  Nature,  fortified  by  tiie 
'•  temperate,  innocent  habits"  which  husband 
up  her  powers,  had  dislodged,  at  least  for  a 
time,  her  enemy;  but  the  attack  was  followed 
by  extreme  debility.  It  was  clear  that  for  days, 
perhaps  even  weeks  to  come,  the  vagrant  must 
remain  a  prisoner  under  Darrell's  roof-tree. 

Lionel  had  been  too  mindful  of  .Sophy's  anx- 
iety to  nezlect  writing  to  Lady  Moiitfort  the  day 
after  Waife's  seizure.  But  he  could  not  find 
the  heart  to  state  the  old  man's  danger;  and 
with  the  sanguine  tendencies  of  his  young  na- 
ture, even  when  at  the  worst,  he  clung  to  belief  I 
in  the  liest.  He  refrained  from  any  separate  ! 
and  private  communication  of  Waife's  state  to  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Individual  concession.?  are  like  political ;  when  you  once 
begin,  there  is  no  saying  where  you  will  stop. 

Waife's  first  words  on  recovering  conscious- 
ness were  given  to  thoughts  of  Sophy.  He  had 
promised  her  to  return,  at  farthest,  the  next 
day ;  she  would  be  so  uneasy — he  must  get  up 
— he  must  go  at  once.  When  he  found  his 
strength  would  not  suffer  him  to  rise,  he  shed 
tears.  It  was  only  very  gradually,  and  at  inter- 
vals, that  he  became  acquainted  with  the  length 
and  severity  of  his  attack,  or  fully  sensible  that 
he  was  in  DaiTell's  house;  that  that  form,  of 
which  he  had  retained  vague,  dreamv  reminis- 
cences, hanging  over  his  pillow,  wiping  his  brow, 
and  soothing  him  with  the  sweetest  tones  of  the 
sweet  human  voice — that  that  form,  so  genial, 
so  brotherlike,  was  the  man  who  had  once  com- 
manded him  not  to  sully  with  his  presence  a 
stainless  home. 

All  that  had  passed  within  the  last  few  days 
was  finally  made  clear  to  him  in  a  short,  unwit- 
nessed, touching  conversation  with  his  host ;  aft- 
er which,  however,  he  became  gradually  worse; 
his  mind  remaining  clear,  but  extremely  deject- 
ed; his  bodily  strength  evidently  sinking.     Dr. 

F was  again  summoned  in  haste.     That 

great  physician  was,  as  every  great  physician 
should  be,  a  profound  philosopher,  though  with 
a  familiar  ease  of  manner,  and  a  light,  off-hand 
vein  of  talk,  which  made  the  philosophy  less 
sensible  to  the  taste  than  any  other  ingredient 
in  his  pharmacopaeia.  Turning  every  body  else 
out  of  the  room,  he  examined  his  patient  alone 
— sounded  the  old  man's  vital  organs,  with  ear 
and  with  stethoscope — talked  to  him  now  on  his 
feelings,  now  on  the  news  of  the  day,  and  then 
stepped  out  to  Darrell. 

"Something  on   the   heart,  my  dear  Sir;  I 


can't  get  at  it ;  perhaps  you  can.  Take  oft"  that 
Lady  Montfort,  lest  the  sadness  it  would  not  I  something,  and  the  springs  will  react,  and  my 
fail  to  occasion  her  should  be  perceptible  to  So-  !  patient  will  soon  recover.  All  about  him  sound 
phy,  and  lead  her  to  divine  the  cause.  So  he  !  as  a  rock — but  the  heart ;  that  has  been  horri- 
contented  himself  with  saying  that  Waife  had  I  bly  worried;  something  worries  it  now.  His 
accompanied  him  to  Mr.  Darrell's,  and  would  heart  may  be  seen  in  his  eye.  Watch  his  eye ; 
be  detained  there,  treated  with  all  kindness  and  |  it  is  missing  some  face  it  is  accustomed  to  see." 
honor,  for  some  days.  j  Darrell  changed  color.  He  stole  back  into 
Sophy's  mind  was  relieved  by  this  intelli-  Waife's  room,  and  took  the  old  man's  hand, 
gence,  but  it  filled  her  with  wonder  and  conjee-  Waife  returned  the  pressure,  and  said,  "I  was 
ture.  That  Waife,  who  had  so  pertinaciously  just  praying  for  you — and — and — I  am  sinking 
refused  to  break  bread  as  a  guest  under  anv  !  fast.  Do  not  let  me  die.  Sir,  without  wishing 
man's  roof-tree,  should  be  for  days  receiving  '  poor  Sophy  a  last  good-by  I" 
the  hospitality  of  Lionel  Hanghton's  wealthy  j  Darrell  passed  back  to  the  landing-place, 
and  powerful  kinsman,  was  indeed  mysterious,  where  George  and  Lionel  were  standing,  while 
But  whatever  brought  Waife  and  Lionel  thus  '  Dr.  F was  snatching  a  hasty  refreshment  in 


in  confidential  intercourse  could  not  but  renew 
yet  more  vividly  the  hopes  she  had  been  en- 


the  library  before  his  return  to  town.     Darrell 
laid  his  hand  on  Lionel's  shoulder.     "Lionel, 


deavoring  of  late  to  stifle.     And  combining  to-  I  you  must  go  back  to  London  with  Dr.  F- 

gether  many  desultory  remembrances  of  words  I  I  can  not  keep  you  here  longer.     I  want  your 

escaped  unawares  from  Lionel,  from  Lady  Mont- 

/ort,  from  Waife  himself,  the  truth  (of  which  her 

native  acuteuess  had  before  admitted  glimpses)    still  so  ill !     You  can  not  be  thus  unkind." 


room. 

Sir,"  said  Lionel,  aghast,  "while  Waife  is 


278 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


"Inconsiderate  egotist!  would  you  deprive 
the  old  man  of  a  presence  dearer  to  him  than 
yours  ?  George,  you  will  go  too ;  but  you  will 
return.  You  told  me  yesterday  that  your  wife 
was  in  London  for  a  few  days ;  entreat  her  to 
accompany  j'ou  hither ;  entreat  her  to  bring 
with  her  the  poor  young  lady  whom  my  guest 
pines  to  see  at  his  bedside — the  face  that  his  eye 
misses." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Sophy,  Darrell,  and  the  Flute-player.     Darrell  prepares 
a  surprise  for  Waife. 

Sophy  is  come.  She  has  crossed  that  inex- 
orable threshold.  She  is  a  guest  in  the  house 
which  rejects  her  as  a  daughter.  She  has  been 
there  some  days.  Waife  revived  at  the  first  sight 
of  her  tender  face.  He  has  left  his  bed ;  can 
move  for  some  hours  a  day  into  an  adjoining 
chamber,  which  has  been  hastily  arranged  for 
his  private  sitting-room  ;  and  can  walk  its  floors 
with  a  step  that  grows  daily  firmer  in  the  delight 
of  leaning  on  Sophy's  arm. 

Since  the  girls  twrival,  Dan-ell  has  relaxed 
his  watch  over  the  patient.  He  never  now 
enters  his  guest's  apartment  without  previous 
notice  ;  and,  by  that  incommunicable  instinct 
which  passes  in  households  between  one  silent 
breast  and  another,  as  by  a  law  equally  strong 
to  attract  or  repel — here  drawing  together,  there 
keeping  apart — though  no  rule  in  either  case  has 
been  laid  down — by  virtue,  I  say,  of  that  strange 
inteUigence,  Sophy  is  not  in  the  old  man's  room 
when  Darrell  enters.  Rarely  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours  do  the  host  and  the  fair  young  guest 
encounter.  But  Darrell  is  a  quick  and  keen  ob- 
server. He  has  seen  enough  of  Sophy  to  be 
sensible  of  her  charm  —  to  penetrate  into  her 
simple,  natural  loveliness  of  character — to  feel 
a  deep  interest  in  her,  and  a  still  deeper  pity  for 
Lionel.  Secluding  himself  as  much  as  possible 
in  his  private  room,  or  in  his  leafless  woods,  his 
reveries  increase  in  gloom.  Nothing  unbends 
his  moody  brow  like  Fairthorn's  flute  or  Fair- 
thorn's  familiar  converse. 

It  has  been  said  before  that  Fairthorn  knew 
his  secrets.  Fairthorn  had  idolized  Caroline 
Lyndsay.  Fairthorn  was  the  only  being  in  the 
world  to  whom  Guy  Dan-ell  could  speak  of  Car- 
oline Lyndsay — to  whom  he  could  own  the  un- 
conquerable but  unforgiving  love  which  had  twice 
driven  him  from  the  social  world.  Even  to  Fair- 
thorn, of  course,  all  could  not  be  told.  Darrell 
could  not  speak  of  the  letter  he  had  received  at 
Malta,  nor  of  Caroline's  visit  to  him  at  Fawley  ; 
for  to  do  so,  even  to  Fairthorn,  was  like  a  trea- 
son to  the  diijmti)  of  the  Belo\ed.  And  Guy 
Darrell  miglit  rail  at  her  inconstancy — her  heart- 
lessness;  but  to  boast  that  she  had  lowered  her- 
self by  the  profl'ers  that  were  dictated  by  repent- 
ance, Guy  Darrell  could  not  do  that ; — he  was  a 
gentleman.  Still  there  was  much  left  to  say. 
He  could  own  that  he  thought  she  would  now 
accept  his  hand  ;  and  when  Fairtliorn  looked 
happy  at  that  thought,  and  hinted  at  excuses 
for  her  former  fickleness,  it  was  a  great  relief 
to  Darrell  to  fly  into  a  rage ;  but  if  the  flute- 
player  meanly  turned  round  and  became  liim- 
self  Caroline's  accuser,  then  poor  Fairthorn  was 
indeed  frightened,  for  Darrell's  trembling  lip  or 


melancholy  manner  overwhelmed  the  assailant 
with  self-reproach,  and  sent  him  sidelong  into 
one  of  his  hidden  coverts. 

But  at  this  moment  Fairthorn  was  a  support 
to  him  under  other  trials — Fairthorn,  who  re- 
spects as  he  does,  as  no  one  else  ever  can,  the 
sanctity  of  the  Darrell  line — who  would  shrink 
like  himself  from  the  thought  that  the  daughter 
of  Jasper  Losely,  and  in  all  probability  not  a 
daughter  of  Matilda  Darrell,  should  ever  be  mis- 
tress of  that  ancestral  hall,  lowly  and  obscure 
and  mouldering  though  it  be — and"  that  the  child 
of  a  sharper,  a  thief,  a  midnight  assassin,  should 
carry  on  the  lineage  of  knights  and  warriors  in 
whose  stainless  scutcheons,  on  many  a  Gothic 
tomb  or  over  the  portals  of  ruined  castles,  was 
impaled  the  heraldry  of  Brides  sprung  from  the 
loins  of  Lion  Kings !  Darrell,  then,  doing  full 
justice  to  all  Sophy's  beauty  and  grace,  purity 
and  goodness,  was  more  and  more  tortured  by 
the  conviction  that  she  could  never  be  wife  to 
the  man  on  whom,  for  want  of  all  nearer  kin- 
dred, would  devolve  the  heritage  of  the  Darrell 
name. 

On  the  other  hand,  Sophy's  feelings  toward 
her  host  were  almost  equally  painfui  and  im- 
bittered.  The  tenderness  and  reverence  that  he 
had  showed  to  her  beloved  grandfather,  the  af- 
fecting gratitude  with  which  Waife  spoke  of  him, 
necessarily  deepened  her  prepossessions  in  his 
favor  as  Lionel's  kinsman  ;  and  though  she  saw 
him  so  sparingly,  still,  when  they  did  meet,  she 
had  no  right  to  complain  of  his  manner.  It 
might  be  distant,  taciturn ;  but  it  was  gentle, 
courteous — the  manner  which  might  be  expect- 
ed, in  a  host  of  secluded  habits,  to  a  young  guest 
from  whose  sympathies  he  was  remo\ed  by  years, 
but  to  whose  comforts  he  was  unobtrusively  con- 
siderate—  whose  wishes  were  delicately  fore- 
stalled. Yet  was  this  all  that  her  imagination 
had  dared  to  picture  on  entering  those  gi-ay 
walls  ?  Where  was  the  evidence  of  the  relation- 
ship of  which  she  had  dreamed  ? — where  a  single 
sign  that  she  was  more  in  that  house  than  a  mere 
guest? — where,  alas!  a  token  that  even  Lionel 
had  named  her  to  his  kinsman,  and  that  for 
Lionel's  sake  tliat  kinsman  bade  her  welcome? 
And  Lionel  too — gone  the  very  day  before  she 
arrived !  That  she  learned  incidentally  from 
the  servant  who  showed  her  into  her  room. 
Gone,  and  not  addressed  a  line  to  herself,  though 
but  to  condole  with  her  on  her  grandfather's  ill- 
ness, or  congratulate  her  that  the  illness  had 
spared  the  life !  She  felt  wounded  to  the  very 
core.  As  Waife's  progressive  restoration  al- 
lowed her  tlioughts  more  to  revert  to  so  many 
causes  for  pain  and  perplexity,  the  mystery  of 
all  connected  with  lier  own  and  AVaife's  sojourn 
under  that  roof  baffled  her  attempts  at  conject- 
ure. The  old  man  did  not  volunteer  exjilana- 
tions.  Timidly  she  questioned  him ;  but  his 
nerves  yet  were  so  unstrung,  and  her  questions 
so  evidently  harassed  him,  that  she  only  once 
made  that  attempt  to  satist^y  her  own  bewilder- 
ment, and  smiled  as  if  contented  when  he  said, 
after  a  long  pause,  "Patience  yet,  my  child; 
let  me  get  a  little  stronger.  You  see  Mr.  Darrell 
will  not  sulfer  me  to  talk  with  him  on  matters 
that  must  be  discussed  with  him  before  I  go ; 
and  then — and  then — Patience  till  then,  Sophy." 
Keither  George  nor  his  wife  gave  her  any  clew 
to  the  inquiries  that  preyed  upon  her  mind,    Tlie 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


279 


latter,  a  kind,  excellent  woman,  meekly  devoted 
to  her  husband,  either  was,  or  affected  to  be,  in 
ignorance  of  the  causes  that  had  led  Waife  to 
Fawley,  save  very  generally  that  Darrell  had 
once  wronged  him  by  an  erring  judgment,  and 
had  hastened  to  efface  that  wrong.  And  then 
she  kissed  Sophy  fondly,  and  told  her  that  bright- 
er days  were  in  store  for  the  old  man  and  her- 
self. George  said,  with  more  authority — the 
authoi-ity  of  the  priest — "Ask  no  questions. 
Time,  that  solves  all  riddles,  is  hurrying  on,  and 
Heaven  directs  its  movements." 

Her  very  heart  was  shut  up,  except  where  it 
could  gush  forth — nor  even  then  with  full  tide 
— in  letters  to  Lady  Montfort.  Caroline  had 
heard  from  George's  wife,  with  intense  emotion, 
that  Sojihy  was  summoned  to  Darrell's  house, 
the  gravity  of  Waife's  illness  being  considerate- 
ly suppressed.  Lady  IMontfort  could  but  sup- 
pose that  Darrell's  convictions  had  been  shaken 
— his  resolutions  softened ;  that  he  sought  an 
excuse  to  see  Sophy,  and  judge  of  her  himself. 
Under  this  impression,  in  parting  with  her  young 
charge,  Caroline  besought  Sophy  to  write  to  her 
constantly,  and  frankly.  Sophy  felt  an  inex- 
pressible relief  in  this  correspondence.  But 
Lady  IMontfort  in  her  replies  was  not  more 
communicative  than  ^^^aife  or  the  Morleys,  only 
she  seemed  more  thoughtfully  anxious  that 
Sophy  should  devote  herself  to  the  task  of  pro- 
pitiating her  host's  affections.  She  urged  her  to 
trj'  and  break  through  his  reserve — see  more  of 
him ;  as  if  that  were  possible !  And  her  letters 
were  moro  filled  with  questions  about  Darrell 
than  even  with  admonitions  and  soothings  to 
Sophy.  The  letters  that  arrived  at  Fawley 
were  brought  in  a  bag,  which  Darrell  opened ; 
but  Sophy  noticed  that  it  was  with  a  peculiar 
compression  of  lip,  and  a  marked  change  of  col- 
or, that  he  had  noticed  the  handwriting  on  Lady 
Montfort's  first  letter  to  her,  and  that  after  that 
first  time  her  letters  were  not  inclosed  in  the 
bag,  but  came  apart,  and  were  never  again  given 
to  her  by  her  host. 

Thus  passed  days  in  which  Sophy's  time  was 
spent  chiefly  in  Waife's  sick-room.  But  now 
he  is  regaining  strength  hourly.  To  his  sitting- 
room  comes  George  frequently  to  relieve  Sophy's 
watch.  There,  once  a  day,  comes  Guy  Darrell, 
and  what  then  passed  between  the  two  men 
none  witnessed.  In  these  hours  Waife  insisted 
upon  Sophy's  going  forth  for  air  and  exercise. 
She  is  glad  to  steal  out  alone — steal  down  by 
the  banks  of  the  calm  lake,  or  into  the  gloom 
of  the  mournful  woods.  Here  she  not  unfre- 
quently  encounters  Fairthorn,  who,  having  tak- 
en more  than  ever  to  the  flute,  is  driven  more 
than  ever  to  outdoor  rambles ;  for  he  has  been 
cautioned  not  to  indulge  in  his  melodious  re- 
source within  doors  lest  he  disturb  the  patient, 

Fairthorn  and  Sophy  thus  made  acquaintance, 
distant  and  shy  at  first  on  both  sides ;  but  it 
gradually  became  more  frank  and  cordial.  Fair- 
thorn had  an  object  not  altogether  friendly  in 
encouraging  this  intimacy.  He  thought,  poor 
man,  that  he  should  be  enabled  to  extract  from 
Sophy  some  revelations  of  her  early  life,  which 
would  elucidate,  not  in  favor  of  her  asserted 
claims,  tiie  mystery  that  hung  upon  her  parent- 
age. But  had  Dick  Fairthorn  been  the  astutest 
of  diplomatists,  in  this  hope  he  would  have  been 
equally  disappointed,     Sophy  had  nothing  to 


communicate.  Her  ingenuousness  utterly  baf- 
fled the  poor  flute-player.  Out  of  an  innocent, 
unconscious  kind  of  spite,  on  ceasing  to  pry 
into  Sophy's  descent,  he  began  to  enlarge  upon 
the  dignity  of  Darrell's.  He  inflictedon  her 
the  long-winded  genealogical  memoir,  the  re- 
cital of  which  had,  on  a  previous  occasion,  so 
nearly  driven  Lionel  Haughton  from  Fawley. 
He  took  her  to  see  the  antiquary's  grave ;  he 
spoke  to  her,  as  they  stood  there,  of  Darrell's 
ambitious  boyhood— his  arid,  laborious  man- 
hood— his  determination  to  restore  the  fallen 
line — the  very  vow  he  had  made  to  the  father 
he  had  so  pityingly  revered.  He  sought  to  im- 
press on  her  the  consciousness  that  she  was  the 
guest  of  one  who  belonged  to  a  race  with  whom 
spotless  honor  was  the  all  in  all;  and  who  had 
gone  through  life  with  bitter  sorrows,  but  rever- 
encing that  race,  and  vindicating  that  honor : 
Fairthorn's  eye  would  tremble — his  eyes  flash 
on  her  while  he  talked.  She,  poor  child,  could 
not  divine  why  ;  but  she  felt  that  he  was  angry 
with  her — speaking  at  her.  In  fact,  Fairthorn's 
prickly  tongue  was  on  the  barbed  point  of  ex- 
claiming, "And  how  dare  you  foist  j-ourself 
into  this  unsullied  lineage!  —  how  dare  you 
think  that  the  dead  would  not  turn  in  their 
graves  ere  they  would  make  room  in  the  vault 
of  the  Darrells  for  the  daughter  of  a  Jasper 
Losely!"  But  though  she  could  not  conceive 
the  musician's  covert  meaning  in  these  heraldic 
discourses,  Sophy,  with  a  justness  of  discrimina- 
tion that  must  have  been  intuitive,  separated 
from  the  more  fantastic  declamations  of  the 
grotesque  genealogist  that  which,  was  genuine 
and  pathetic  in  the  single  image  of  the  last  de- 
scendant in  a  long  and  gradually-falling  race, 
lifting  it  up  once  more  into  power  and  note  on 
toiling  shoulders,  and  standing  on  the  verge  of 
age,  with  the  melancholy  consciousness  that  the 
effort  was  successful  only  for  his  fleeting  life  ; 
that,  with  all  his  gold,  with  all  his  fame,  the 
hope  which  had  achieved  alike  the  gold  and  the 
fame  was  a  lying  mockery,  and  that  name  and 
race  would  perish  with  himself,  when  the  earth 
yawned  for  him  beside  the  antiquary's  grave. 
And  these  recitals  made  her  conceive  a  more 
soft  and  tender  interest  in  Guj'  Darrell  than  she 
had  before  admitted ;  they  accounted  for  the 
mournfulness  on  his  brow ;  they  lessened  her  in- 
voluntary awe  of  that  stateliness  of  bearing, 
which  before  had  only  chilled  her  as  the  evi- 
dence of  pride. 

While  Fairthorn  and  Sophy  thus  matured  ac- 
quaintance, Darrell  and  Waife  were  drawing 
closer  and  closer  to  each  other.  Certainly  no 
one  would  be  predisposed  to  suspect  any  con- 
geniality of  taste,  intellect,  experience,  or  emo- 
tion, between  two  men  whose  lives  had  been  so 
widely  different — in  whose  faults  or  merits  the 
ordinary  observer  would  have  seen  nothing  but 
antagonism  and  contrast.  Unquestionably  their 
characters  were  strikingly  dissimilar,  vet  there 
was  that  in  each  which  the  other  recognized  as 
familiar  to  his  own  nature.  Each  had  been  the 
victim  of  his  heart ;  each  had  passed  over  the 
plowshare  of  self-sacrifice,  Darrell  had  offered 
u])  his  youth — Waife  his  age; — Darrell  to  a  Fa- 
ther and  the  unrequitiiig  Dead — Waife  to  a  Son 
wliose  life  had  become  his  terror.  To  one  man, 
NAjfE  had  been  an  idol ;  to  the  other,  nami:  had 
been  a  weed  cast  away  into  the  mire.     To  the 


280 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


one  man,  iinjoyoiis,  evanescent  glory — to  the 
other,  a  shame  that  had  been  borne  with  a  sport- 
ive cheerfnhiess,  dashed  into  sorrow  only  when 
the  world's  contumely  threatened  to  despoil  Af- 
fection of  its  food.  But  there  was  something 
akin  in  their  joint  experience  of  earthly  vani- 
ties ; — so  little  solace  in  worldly  honors  to  the 
triumphant  Orator — so  little  of  misery  to  the 
vagrant  Mime  while  his  conscience  mutely  aj)- 
pealed  to  Heaven  from  the  verdict  of  his  kind. 
And  as  beneath  all  the  levity  and  whim  of  the 
man  reared  and  nurtured,  and  fitted  by  his  char- 
acteristic tendencies,  to  view  life  through  its 
humors,  not  through  its  passions,  there  still  ran 
a  deep  under-current  of  grave  and  earnest  in- 
tellect and  feeling — so  too,  amidst  the  severer 
and  statelier  texture  of  the  once  ambitious,  la- 
borious mind,  which  had  conducted  Darrell  to 
renown — amidst  all  that  gathered-up  intensity 
of  passion,  which  admitted  no  comedy  into  Sor- 
row, and  saw  in  Love  but  the  aspect  of  Fate — 
amidst  all  this  lofty  seriousness  of  soul,  there 
was  yet  a  vivid  capacity  of  enjoyment — those 
fine  sensibilities  to  the  pleasurable  sun-rays  of 
life,  which  are  constitutional  to  all  genius,  no 
matter  how  grave  its  vocations.  True,  afHiction 
at  last  may  dull  them,  as  it  dulls  all  else  that 
we  took  from  Nature  when  she  equipped  us  for 
life.  Yet,  in  the  mind  of  Darrell,  affliction  had 
shattered  the  tilings  most  gravely  coveted,  even 
more  than  it  had  marred  its  perceptive  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  sympathies  between  fancies  that 
move  to  smiles,  and  thoughts  that  bequeath 
solemn  lessons,  or  melt  to  no  idle  tears.  Had 
Darrell  been  placed  amidst  the  circumstances 
that  make  happy  the  homes  of  earnest  men, 
Darrell  would  have  been  mirthful ;  had  Waife 
been  placed  among  the  circumstances  that  con- 
centrate talent,  and  hedge  round  life  with 
trained  thicksets  and  belting  laurels,  Waife 
would  have  been  grave. 

It  was  not  in  the  earlier  conferences  that  took 
place  in  Waife's  apartment  that  the  subject 
whicli  had  led  the  old  man  to  Fawley  was 
brought  into  discussion.  When  Waife  had 
sought  to  introduce  it  —  when,  after  Sophy's 
arrival,  he  had  looked  wistfully  into  Darrell's 
face,  striving  to  read  there  the  impression  she 
had  created,  and,  unable  to  discover,  had  be- 
gun, with  tremulous  accents,  to  reopen  the 
cause  that  weighed  on  him — Darrell  stopped 
him  at  once.  "Hush — not  yet ;  remember  that 
it  was  in  the  very  moment  you  first  broached 
this  sorrowful  tojiic,  on  arriving  here,  and  per- 
ceived how  different  the  point  of  view  from 
which  we  two  must  regard  it,  that  your  nerves 
gave  way — your  illness  rushed  on  you.  Wait, 
not  only  till  you  are  stronger,  but  till  we  know 
each  other  better.  This  subject  is  one  that  it 
becomes  us  to  treat  with  all  the  strength  of  our 
reason — with  all  the  calm  which  either  can  im- 
pose upon  the  feelings  that  ruffle  judgment.  At 
present,  talk  we  of  all  matters  except  that,  which 
I  promise  you  shall  be  fairly  discussed  at  last." 

Darrell  found,  however,  that  his  most  effect- 
ive diversion  from  the  subject  connected  with 
Sophy  was  through  another  channel  in  the  old 
man's  atirections,  hopes,  and  fears.  George 
Morlcy,  in  rejieating  the  conversation  he  had 
overheard  between  Waife  and  Jasper,  had  nat- 
urally, while  clearing  the  father,  somewhat  soft- 
ened tlie  bravado  and  cynicism  of  the  sou's  lan- 


guage, and  more  than  somewhat  brightened  the 
touches  of  natural  feeling  by  which  the  bravado 
and  cynicism  had  been  alternated.  And  Dar- 
rell had  sufficient  magnanimity  to  conquer  the 
repugnance  with  which  he  approached  a  name 
associated  with  so  many  dark  and  hateful  mem- 
ories, and,  avoiding  as  much  as  possible  distinct 
reference  to  Jasper's  past  life,  to  court  a  con- 
sultation on  the  chances  of  saving  from  the 
worst  the  life  that  yet  remained.  With  whom 
else,  indeed,  than  Jasper's  father  could  Darrell 
so  properly  and  so  unreservedly  discuss  a  mat- 
ter in  which  their  interest  and  their  fear  were 
in  common  ? — As  though  he  were  rendering 
some  compensation  to  Waife  for  the  disappoint- 
ment he  would  experience  when  Sojihy's  claims 
came  to  be  discussed — if  he  could  assist  in  re- 
lieving the  old  man's  mind  as  to  the  ultimate 
fate  of  the  son  for  whom  he  had  made  so  grand 
a  sacrifice,  Darrell  spoke  to  Waife  somewhat  in 
detail  of  the  views  with  which  he  had  instruct- 
ed Colonel  INIorley  to  find  out  and  to  treat  with 
Jasper.  He  heard  from  the  Colonel  almost 
daily.  Alban  had  not  yet  discovered  Jasper, 
nor  even  succeeded  in  tracing  Mrs.  Crane !  But 
an  account  of  Jasper's  wild  farewell  visit  to  that 
den  of  thieves,  from  which  he  had  issued  safe 
and  triumphant,  had  reached  the  ears  of  a  de- 
tective employed  by  the  Colonel,  and  on  tolera- 
bly good  terms  with  Cutts ;  and  it  was  no  small 
comfort  to  know  that  Jasper  had  finally  broken 
with  those  miscreant  comrades,  and  had  never 
again  been  seen  in  their  haunts.  As  Arabella 
had  introduced  herself  to  Alban  hy  her  former 
name,  and  neither  he  nor  Darrell  was  acquaint- 
ed with  that  she  now  bore,  and  as  no  questions 
on  the  suljject  could  be  put  to  Waife  during  the 
earlier  stages  of  his  illness,  so  it  was  several 
days  before  the  Colonel  had  succeeded  in  trac- 
ing her  out  as  Mrs.  Crane  of  Podden  Place — a 
discovery  effected  by  a  distant  relation  to  whom 
he  had  been  referred  at  the  famous  school  of 
which  Araliella  had  been  the  pride,  and  who 
was  no  doubt  the  owner  of  those  sheepskin  ac- 
count-books by  which  the  poor  grim  woman  had 
once  vainly  sought  to  bribe  Jasper  into  honest 
work.  But  the  house  in  Podden  Place  was 
shut  up — not  a  soul  in  charge  of  it.  The  houses 
immediatel}'  adjoining  it  were  tenantless.  The 
Colonel  learned,  however,  from  a  female  serv- 
ant in  an  oj>posite  house,  that  several  days  ago 
she  had  seen  a  tall,  ])owerful-looking  man  enter 
Mrs.  Crane's  street-door;  that  she  had  not  seen 
him  quit  it;  that  some  evenings  afterward,  as 
this  servant  was  closing  up  the  house  in  wiiich 
she  served,  she  had  remarked  a  large  private 
carriage  driving  away  from  Mrs.  Crane's  door; 
that  it  was  too  dark  to  see  who  were  in  the  car- 
liage,  but  she  had  noticed  a  woman  whom  she 
felt  fully  sure  was  JNIrs.  Crane's  servant,  Brid- 
gett  Greggs,  on  the  box  beside  the  coachman. 

Alban  had  been  to  the  agent  employed  by 
Mrs.  Crane  in  the  letting  of  her  houses,  but  had 
not  there  gained  any  information.  The  Colonel 
believed  that  Mrs.  Crane  had  succeeded  in  re- 
moving Jasper  from  London — had,  perhaps, 
accompanied  him  abroad.  If  with  her,  at  all 
events,  tor  tiie  ])resent,  he  was  safe  from  the 
stings  of  want,  and  with  one  who  had  sworn  to 
save  him  from  his  own  guilty  self.  If,  however, 
still  in  England,  Albauhad  no  doubt,  sooner  or 
later,  to  hunt  him  up. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


281 


Upon  the  whole,  this  conjectural  information, 
though  unsatisfactory,  allayed  much  anxiety. 
Darrell  made  the  most  of  it  iu  his  representa- 
tions to  Waife.  And  tlie  old  man,  as  we  know, 
was  one  not  hard  to  comfort,  never  quarreling 
irrevocably  with  Hope. 

And  now  Waife  is  rapidly  recovering.  Dar- 
rell, after  spending  the  greater  part  of  several 
days,  intent  upon  a  kind  of  study  from  which 
he  had  been  estranged  for  many  years,  takes  to 
frequent  absences  for  the  whole  day ;  goes  up 
to  London  by  the  earliest  train,  comes  back  by 
the  latest.  George  Morley  also  goes  to  London 
for  a  few  hours.  Darrell,  on  returning,  does 
not  allude  to  the  business  which  took  him  to  the 
metropolis ;  neither  does  George,  but  the  latter 
seems  unusually  animated  and  excited.  At 
length,  after  one  of  these  excursions,  so  foreign 
to  his  habits,  he  and  George  enter  together  the 
old  man's  apartment  not  long  before  the  early 
hour  at  which  the  convalescent  retires  to  rest. 
Sophy  was  seated  on  the  footstool  at  Waife's 
knee,  reading  the  Bible  to  him,  his  hand  rest- 
ing lightly  on  her  bended  head.  The  sight 
touched  both  George  and  Darrell ;  but  Darrell, 
of  the  two,  was  the  more  affected.  What  young, 
pure  voice  shall  read  to  1dm  the  Book  of  Hope 
in  the  evening  of  lonely  age?"  Sophy  started  in 
some  confusion,  and  as,  in  quitting  the  room, 
she  passed  by  Darrell,  he  took  her  hand  gently, 
and  scanned  her  features  more  deliberately, 
more  earnestly  than  he  had  ever  yet  seemed  to 
do ;  then  he  sighed,  and  dropped  the  hand, 
murmuring,  "  Pardon  me."  Was  he  seeking  to 
read  in  that  fair  face  some  likeness  to  the  Dar- 
rell lineaments  ?  If  he  had  found  it,  what  then  ? 
But  when  Sophy  was  gone,  Darrell  came  straight 
to  Waife  with  a  cheerful  Ijrow — with  a  kind- 
ling eye. 

"William  Losely,"  said  he. 

"Waife,  if  you  please,  Sir,"  interrupted  the 
old  man. 

"William  Losely,"  repeated  Darrell,  "jus- 
tice seeks  to  repair,  so  far  as,  alas  I  it  now  can, 
the  wrongs  inflicted  on  the  name  of  William 
Losely.  Your  old  friend  Alban  Morley  supply- 
ing me  with  the  notes  he  had  made  in  the  mat- 
ter of  your  trial,  I  arranged  the  evidence  they 
furnished.  The  Secretary  for  the  Home  Depart- 
ment is  one  of  my  most  intimate  political  friends 
— a  man  of  humanity — of  sense.  I  jjlaced  that 
evidence  before  him.  I,  George,  and  ]\Ir.  Har- 
topp — saw  him  after  he  had  perused  it — " 

"  I\Iy — son — Lizzy's  son!" 

"His  secret  will  be  kept.  The  question  was 
not  who  committed  the  act  for  which  you  suf- 
fered, but  whether  j/oM  were  clearly,  incontesta- 
bly  innocent  of  the  act,  and,  in  pleading  guilty, 
did  but  sublimely  bear  the  penalty  of  another. 
There  will  be  no  new  trial  —  there  are  none 
who  would  prosecute.  I  bring  back  to  you  the 
Queen's  free  pardon  under  the  Great  Seal.  I 
should  explain  to  you  that  this  form  of  the  rov- 
al  grace  is  so  rarely  given  that  it  needed  all  the 
strength  and  affecting  circumstance  of  your  pe- 
culiar case  to  justify  the  Home  Secretary  in  list- 
ening, not  only  to  the  interest  I  could  bring  to 
bear  in  your  favor,  but  to  his  own  humane  in- 
clinations. The  pardon  under  the  Great  Seal 
diffei-s  from  an  ordinary  pardon.  It  purges  the 
blood  from  tlie  taint  of  felony  — it  remits  all  the 
civil  disabilities   which  the  mere  expiry  of  a 


penal  sentence  does  not  remove.  In  short,  as 
applicable  to  your  case,  it  becomes  virtuallv  a 
complete  and  formal  attestation  of  your  inno- 
cence. Alban  Morley  will  take  caie  to  aj  prise 
those  of  your  old  friends  who  may  yet  survive 
of  that  revocation  of  unjust  obloquy  which  this 
royal  deed  implies — Alban  INIorley,  who  would 
turn  his  back  on  a  prince  of  the  blood  if  but 
guilty  of  some  jockey  trick  on  the  turf!  Live 
henceforth  openly,  and  in  broad  daylight,  if  you 
please ;  and  trust  to  us  three — the  Soldier,  the 
Lawyer,  the  Churchman — to  give  to  this  paper 
tliat  value  which  your  Sovereign's  advisers  in- 
tend it  to  receive." 

"Your  hand  now,  dear  old  friend!"  cried 
George.  "You  remember  I  commanded  you 
once  to  take  mine  as  man  and  gentleman ;  as 
man  and  gentleman  now  honor  me  with  yours." 

"Is  it  possible?"  faltered  Waife,  one  hand  in 
George's,  the  other  extended  in  imiiloring  ap- 
peal to  Darrell — "is  it  possible?  I  vindicated 
— I  cleared — and  yet  no  felon's  dock  for  Jasper! 
— the  son  not  criminated  by  the  father's  acquit- 
tal !     Tell  me  that !  again — again !" 

"It  is  so,  believe  me.  All  that  rests  is  to 
force  on  that  son,  if  he  have  a  human  heart,  the 
conviction  that  he  will  be  worse  than  a  parricide 
if  he  will  not  save  himself." 

"  And  he  will— he  shall !  Oh  that  I  could  but 
get  at  him  !"  exclaimed  the  preacher. 

"And  now,"  said  DaiTell — "now,  George, 
leave  ns;  for  now,  upon  equal  terms,  we  two 
fathers  can  discuss  family  diilerences." 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

Sophy's  claim  examined  and  canvassed. 

"I  TAKE  this  moment,"  said  Darrell,  when 
left  alone  with  Waife — (ah,  reader,  let  vs  keep 
to  that  familiar  name  to  the  last !) — "  I  take 
this  moment,"  said  DaiTcll,  "the  first  moment 
in  which  you  can  feel  thoroughly  assured  that 
no  prejudice  against  yourself  clouds  my  judg- 
ment iu  reference  to  her  whom  you  believe  to 
be  your  grandchild,  to  commence — and,  I  trust, 
to  conclude  forever — the  subject  which  twice 
brought  you  within  these  walls.  On  the  night 
of  your  recent  arrival  here  you  gave  me  this 
copy  of  a  French  woman's  declaration,  to  the 
effect  that  two  infants  had  been  placed  out  with 
her  to  nurse ;  that  one  of  them  was  my  poor 
daughter's  infant,  who  was  about  to  be  taken 
away  from  her;  that  the  other  was  confided  to 
her  by  its  parent,  a  French  lady,  whom  she 
speaks  of  as  a  very  liberal  and  distinguished 
person,  but  whose  name  is  not  stated  in  the 
paper." 

Waife.  "The  confession  describes  that  lady 
as  an  artiste;  'distinguished  artiste'  is  the  ex- 
pression— viz.,  a  professional  person — a  paint- 
er— an  actress — a  singer — or — " 

Darrell  {dryly).  "An  opera-dancer!  I  un- 
derstand the  French  word  perfectly.  And  I 
presume  the  name  is  not  mentioned  in  the  doc- 
ument from  motives  of  delicacy;  the  child  of  a 
distinguished  French  artiste  is  not  necessarily 
born  iu  wedlock.  Buc  this  lady  was  very  grate- 
ful to  the  nurse  for  the  care  shown  to  her  in- 
fant, who  was  verj-  sickly ;  and  promised  to  take 
the  nurse,  and  the  nurse's  husband  also,  into  her 


282 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


service.  The  nurse  states  that  she  herself  was 
very  poor ;  that  the  hidy's  offer  appeared  to  her 
like  a  permanent  provision  ;  that  the  life  of  this 
artiste's  infant  was  of  the  utmost  value  to  her — 
the  life  of  my  poor  daughter's  child  of  compara- 
tive insignificance.  But  the  infant  of  the  artiste 
died,  and  the  nurse's  husband  put  it  into  his 
wife's  liead  to  tell  your  son  (then  a  widower,  and 
who  had  seen  so  little  of  his  child  as  to  be  easi- 
ly deceived)  that  it  was  his  infant  who  died. 
The  nurse  shortly  afterward  removed  to  Paris, 
taking  with  her  to  the  artiste's  house  the  child 
who  in  reality  was  my  daughter's." 

"  It  seems  very  probable,  does  it  not — does  it 
not  ?"  said  the  ex-comedian,  eagerly. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  replied  the  ex-lawyer, 
"very  probable  that  a  witness  entering  into 
court  with  the  confession  of  one  villainous  false- 
hood would  have  little  scruple  to  tell  another. 
But  I  proceed.  This  rich  and  liberal  artiste 
dies ;  the  nurse's  conscience  then  suddenly 
awakens  —  she  sees  Mr.  Hammond  —  she  in- 
forms him  of  the  fraud  she  has  practiced.  A 
lady  of  rank,  who  had  known  Matilda,  and  had 
seen  both  the  infants  when  both  were  living 
under  the  nurse's  charge,  and  observed  them 
more  attentively  than  your  son  had  done — cor- 
roborates the  woman's  stor}',  stating  that  the 
artistes  child  had  dark  eyes  instead  of  blue; 
that  the  artiste  herself  was  never  deceived ;  but, 
having  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  spurious  in- 
fant, was  willing  to  receive  and  cherish  it  as 
her  own ;  and  that  she  knows  several  persons 
who  will  depose  that  they  heard  the  artiste  say 
that  the  child  was  not  her  own.  On  this  evi- 
dence your  son  takes  to  himself  this  child — and 
this  child  is  your  Sophy — and  you  wisli  me  to 
acknowledge  her  as  my  daughter's  offspring. 
Do  not  look  me  so  earnestly  in  the  face,  my 
dear  and  respected  guest!  It  was  when  you 
read  in  my  face  what  my  lips  shrunk  from  utter- 
ing that  your  emotions  overcame  your  strength, 
and  your  very  mind  deserted  you.  Now,  be 
firmer.  Your  Sophy  has  no  need  of  me — she 
is  under  your  charge,  and  your  name  is  clear- 
ed. She  has  found  a  friend — a  protectress — in 
her  own  sex.  Lady  Montfort's  rank  gives  to 
her  a  position  in  the  world  as  high  as  I  could 
offer;  and  as  to  mere  pecuniary  ])rovision  for 
her,  make  your  mind  easy — it  shall  be  secured. 
But  bear  with  me  when  I  add,  resolutely  and 
calmly,  that  this  nurse's  attestation  is  to  me  a 
grosser  and  ])oorer  attempt  at  imposture  than  I 
had  anticipated ;  and  I  am  amazed  that  a  man 
of  your  abilities  should  have  been  contented  to 
accept  it." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Darrell,  don't  say  so!  It  was  such 
a  blessing  to  think,  when  my  son  was  lost  to  me, 
that  I  miglit  fill  up  the  void  in  mj'  heart  with  an 
innocent,  loving  child.  Don't  talk  of  my  abili- 
ties. If  you,  whose  abilities  none  can  question — 
if  you  had  longed  and  yearned  for  such  a  com- 
forter— if  you  had  wished — if  you  wished  now 
this  tale  to  be  true,  you  would  liave  believed  it 
too ;  you  would  believe  it  now — you  would,  in- 
deed. Two  men  look  so  differently  at  the  same 
story — one  deeply  interested  that  it  should  be 
true  —  one  determined,  if  possible,  to  find  it 
false.     Is  it  not  so?" 

Darrell  smiled  slightly,  but  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  assent  even  to  so  general  a  jiroposition. 
He  felt  as  if  lie  were  jutted  against  a  counsel 


who  would   take   advantage  of  every  conces- 
sion. 

Waife  continued.  "And  whatever  seems 
most  improbable  in  this  confession  is  rendered 
probable  at  once — if — if — we  may  assume  that 
my  unhappy  son,  tempted  by  the  desire  to — 
to—" 

"  Spare  yourself — I  rmderstand — if  your  son 
wished  to  obtain  his  wife's  fortune,  and  there- 
fore connived  at  the  exchange  of  the  infants, 
and  was  therefore,  too,  enabled  always  to  cor- 
roborate the  story  of  the  exchange,  whenever  it 
suited  him  to  reclaim  the  infant.  I  grant  this 
— and  I  grant  that  the  conjecture  is  sufficiently 
plausible  to  justify  you  in  attaching  to  it  much 
weight.  We  will  allow  that  it  was  his  interest 
at  one  time  to  represent  his  child,  thougtTliving, 
as  no  more ;  but  you  must  allow  also  that  he 
would  have  deemed  it  his  interest,  later,  to  fasten 
upon  me,  as  my  daughter's,  a  child  to  whom  she 
never  gave  birth.  Here  we  entangle  ourselves 
in  a  controversy  without  data,  without  facts. 
Let  us  close  it.  Believe  what  you  please.  Why 
should  I  shake  convictions  that  render  you  hap- 
py ?  Be  equally  forbearing  with  me.  I  do  full 
justice  to  your  Sophy's  charming  qualities.  In 
herself,  the  proudest  parent  might  rejoice  to 
own  her ;  but  I  can  not  acknowledge  her  to  be 
the  daughter  of  Matilda  Darrell.  And  the  story 
that  assured  you  she  was  your  grandchild,  still 
more  convinces  me  that  she  is  not  mine !" 

"But  be  not  thus  inflexible,  I  implore  you — 
you  can  be  so  kind,  so  gentle — she  would  be 
such  a  blessing  to  yon !  later — perhaps — when  I 
am  dead.  I  am  pleading  for  your  sake — I  owe 
you  so  much !  I  should  repay  you,  if  I  could 
but  induce  you  to  inquire — and  if  inquiry  should 
prove  that  I  am  right." 

"I  have  inquired  sufficiently." 
"Then  I'll  go  and  find  out  tlie  Nurse.     I'll 
question  her.     I'll — " 

"Hold.     Be  persuaded!     Hug  your  belief! 
Inquire  no  farther  I" 
"  Why — why  ?" 
Darrell  was  mute. 

Waife  ])assed  and  repassed  his  hand  over  his 
brow,  and  then  cried,  suddenly,  "But  if  I  could 
prove  her  not  to  be  my  grandchild,  then  she 
might  be  happy  ! — then — then — ah.  Sir,  young 
Haughton  tells  me  that  if  she  were  but  the 
',  daughter  of  honest  parents — no   child  of  Jas- 
per's, no  grandchild  of  mine — then  you  might 
not  be  too  proud  to  bless  her  at  least  as  his 
bride !     And,  Sir,  the  poor  child  loves  the  young 
I  man.     How  could  she  help  it?     And,  at  her 
j  age,  life  without  hope  is  either  very  short,  or 
I  very,  very  long !     Let  me  inquire !     I  should  be 
{  happy  even  to  know  that  she  was  not  my  grand- 
child.    I  should  not  love  her  less  ;  and  then  she 
'  would  have  others  to  love  her  when  I  am  gone 
to  Lizzy !" 

Darrell  was  dee])ly  moved.     To  him  there 
I  was  something  in  this  old  man — ever  forgetting 
himself,  ever  so  hurried  on  by  his  heart — some- 
[  thing,  I  say,  in  this  old  man,  before  which  Dar- 
rell  felt   his  intellect  subdued,  and   his  pride 
silenced  and  abashed. 
j      "Yes,  Sir,"  said  Waife,  musingly,  "so  let  it 
!  be.    I  am  well  now.     I  will  go  to  France  to- 
il 
morrow. 

Darrell  nerved  his  courage.  He  had  wished 
to  spare  Waife  the  pain  which  his  own  persua- 


WHAT  ^Y1L1,  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


283 


sions  caused  to  himself.  Better  now  to  be  frank. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Waife's  shoulder,  and,  look- 
ing him  in  the  face,  said,  solemnl_v,  '•  I  entreat 
you  not !  Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  not  re- 
sume inquiry  in  person,  nor  pause  till  the  truth 
were  made  amply  clear,  if  I  had  not  strong  rea- 
son to  ))refer  doubt  to  certainty?" 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Sir?" 
"  There  is  a  woman  whose  career  is,  I  believe, 
at  this  moment  revived  into  fresh  notoriety  as 
the  heroine  of  some  drama  on  the  stage  of  Paris 
— a  woman  who,  when  years  paled  her  fame  and 
reft  her  spoils,  as  a  courtesan  renowned  for  the 
fools  she  had  beggared,  for  the  young  hearts  she 
had  corrupted,  sought  plunder  still  by  crimes,  to 
which  law  is  less  lenient.  Charged  with  swin- 
dling, with  fraud,  with  forgery,  and  at  last  more 
than  suspected  as  a  practiced  poisoner,  she  es- 
caped by  suicide  the  judgment  of  human  tri- 
bunals." 

"  I  know  of  whom  you  speak — that  dreadful 
Gabrielle  Desmarets,  but  for  whom  my  sacrifice 
to  Jasper's  future  might  not  have  been  in  vain ! 
It  was  to  save  Sophy  from  the  chance  of  Jasper's 
ever  placing  her  within  reach  of  that  woman's 
example  that  I  took  her  away." 

"  Is  it  not,  then,  better  to  forbear  asking  who 
were  your  Sophy's  parents,  than  to  learn  from 
inquiry  that  she  is  inileed  your  grandchild,  and 
that  her  mother  was  Gabrielle  Desmarets  ?" 

Waife  uttered  a  cry  like  a  shriek,  and  then 
sate  voiceless  and  aghast.  At  last  he  exclaimed, 
"  I  am  certain  it  is  not  so !  Did  you  ever  see 
that  woman?" 

"  Never  that  I  know  of;  but  George  tells  me 
that  he  heard  your  son  state  to  you  that  she 
had  made  acquaintance  with  me  under  another 
name,  and  if  there  was  a  design  to  employ  her 
in  confirmation  of  his  tale — if  he  was  then 
speaking  truth  to  you,  doubtless  this  was  the 
lady  of  rank  referred  to  in  the  Nurse's  confes- 
sion— doubtless  this  was  the  woman  once  palmed 
upon  me  as  Matilda's  confidante.  In  that  case 
I  have  seen  her.     What,  then?" 

"Mother  was  not  written  on  her  face!  She 
could  never  have  been  a  mother.  Oh,  you  may 
smile.  Sir  ;  but  all  my  life  I  have  been  a  reader 
of  the  human  face;  and  there  is  in  the  aspects 
of  some  women  the  barrenness  as  of  stone — no 
mother's  throb  in  their  bosom — no  mother's  kiss 
on  their  lips." 

"I  am  a  poor  reader  of  women's  faces,"  said 
Darrell ;  "  but  she  must  be  very  unlike  women 
in  general,  who  allows  you  to  know  her  a  bit 
better  if  you  stood  reading  her  face  till  dooms- 
day. Besides,  at  the  time  you  saw  Gabrielle 
Desmarets  her  mode  of  life  had  perhaps  given 
to  her  an  aspect  not  originally  in  her  counte- 
nance. And  I  can  only  answer  your  poetic  con- 
ceit by  a  poetic  illustration — Xiobe  turned  to 
stone  ;  but  she  had  a  great  many  daughters  be- 
fore she  petrified.  Pardon  me,  if  I  would  turn 
off  by  a  jest  a  thought  that  I  see  would  shock 
you,  as  myself,  if  gravely  encouraged.  Encour- 
age it  not.  Let  us  suppose  it  only  a  chance 
that  inquiry  might  confirm  this  conjecture  ;  but 
Ictus  shun  that  chance.  Meanwhile,  if  inquiry 
is  to  be  made,  one  more  liRely  than  either  of  us 
to  pet  at  the  truth  has  promised  to  make  it,  and 
sooner  or  later  we  may  learn  from  her  the  re- 
sults—  I  mean  that  ill-fated  Arabella  Eosset, 
whom  you  knew  as  Crane." 


Waife  was  silent;  but  he  kept  turning  in  his 
hand,  almost  disconsolately,  the  document  which 
assoiled  him  from  the  felon's  taint,  and  said  at 
length,  as  Darrell  was  about  to  leave,  "And 
this  thing  is  of  no  use  to  her,  then?" 

Darrell  came  back  to  the  old  man's  chair,  and 
said,  softly,  "Erien'd,  do  not  fancy  that  the  young 
have  only  one  path  to  happiness.  You  grieve 
that  I  can  not  consent  to  Lionel's  marriage  with 
your  Sophy.  Dismiss  from  your  mind  the  de- 
sire for  the  Impossible.  Gently  wean  from  hers 
what  is  but  a  girl's  first  fancy." 

"It  is  a  girl's  first  love." 

"And  if  it  be,"  said  Darrell,  calmly,  "no 
complaint  more  sure  to  yield  to  change  of  air. 
I  have  known  a  girl  as  affectionate,  as  pure,  as 
full  of  all  womanly  virtues,  as  your  Sojdiy  (and 
I  can  give  her  no  higher  praise) — loved  more 
deeply  than  Lionel  can  love ;  professing,  doubt- 
less at  the  time  believing,  that  she  also  loved 
for  life ;  betrothed  too  ;  faith  solemnized  by 
promise ;  yet  in  less  than  a  year  she  was  an- 
other's wife.  Change  of  air,  change  of  heart ! 
I  do  not  underrate  the  effect  which  a  young 
man,  so  winning  a»  Lionel,  would  naturally 
produce  on  the  fancy  or  the  feelings  of  a  girl 
who  as  yet,  too,  has  seen  no  others ;  but  im- 
pressions in  youth  are  characters  in  the  sand. 
Grave  them  ever  so  deeply,  the  tide  rolls  over 
them;  and  when  the  ebb  shows  the  surface 
again  the  characters  are  gone,  for  the  sands  are 
shifted.  Courage  !  Lady  JMontfort  will  present 
to  her  others  with  forms  as  fair  as  Lionel's  and 
as  elegantly  dressed.  With  so  muchinher  o^^'Il 
favor,  there  are  young  patricians  enough  who 
will  care  not  a  rush  what  her  birth — young  lords 
— Lady  Montfort  knows  well  how  fascinating 
young  lords  can  he  !  Courage — before  a  year 
is  out,  you  will  find  new  characters  written  on 
the  sand." 

"  You  don't  know  Sophy,  Sir,"  said  Waife, 
simply ;  "  and  I  see  you  are  resolved  not  to 
know  her.  But  you  say  Arabella  Crane  is  to 
inquire  ;  and  should  the  inquiry  prove  that  she 
is  no  child  of  Gabrielle  Desmarets — that  she  is 
either  your  own  grandchild  or  not  mine — that — " 
"  Let  me  interrupt  you.  If  there  be  a  thing 
in  the  world  that  is  cruel  and  treacherous,  it  is 
a  false  hope  !  Crush  out  of  every  longing  thought 
the  belief  that  this  poor  girl  can  prove  to  be  one 
whom,  with  my  consent,  my  kinsman  can  woo 
to  be  his  wife.  Lionel  Haughton  is  the  sole 
kinsman  left  to  whom  I  can  bequeath  this  roof- 
tree — these  acres,  hallowed  to  me  because  as- 
sociated with  my  earliest  lessons  in  honor,  and 
with  the  dreams  which  directed  my  life.  He 
must  take  with  the  heritage  the  name  it  repre- 
sents. In  his  children,  that  name  of  Dan-ell 
can  alone  live  still  in  the  land.  I  say  to  you, 
that  even  were  my  daughter  now  in  existence, 
she  would  not  succeed  me — she  would  not  in- 
herit nor  transmit  that  name.  Why? — not  be- 
cause I  am  incapable  of  a  Christian's  forgive- 
ness, but  because  I  am  not  capable  of  a  gentle- 
man's treason  to  his  ancestors  and  himself — 
because  Matilda  Darrell  was  false  and  perfidi- 
ous— because  she  was  dead  to  honor,  and  there- 
fore her  birth-right  to  a  heritage  of  honor  was 
irrevocably  forfeited.  And  since  you  compel 
me  to  speak  rudely,  while  in  you  I  revere  a 
man  above  the  power  of  law  to  degrade — while, 
could  we  pass  a  generation,   and  Sophy  were 


28i 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


your  child  by  your  Lizzy,  I  should  proudly  wel- 
come an  alliance  that  made  you  and  me  broth- 
ers— yet  I  can  not  contemiilate — it  is  beyond 
my  power — I  can  not  contemplate  the  picture 
of  Jasper  Losely's  daughter,  even  by  my  own 
child,  the  Mistress  in  my  lather's  home — the 
bearer  of  my  father's  name.  'Tis  in  vain  to 
argue.  Grant  rae  the  slave  of  a  prejudice — 
grant  these  ideas  to  be  antiquated  bigotry — I 
am  too  old  to  change.  I  ask  from  others  no 
sacrifice  which  I  have  not  borne.  And  what- 
ever be  Lionel's  grief  at  my  resolve,  grief  will 
be  my  companion  long  after  he  has  forgotten 
that  he  mourned." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Poor  Sophy! 

The  next  morning  Mills,  in  giving  Sophy  a 
letter  from  Lady  Montfort,  gave  her  also  one 
for  Waife,  and  she  recognized  Lionel  Haugh- 
ton's  handwriting  on  the  address.  She  went 
straight  to  Waife's  sitting-room,  for  the  old  man 
had  now  resumed  iiis  early  habits,  and  was  up 
and  dressed.  She  phiced  the  letter  in  his  hands 
without  a  word,  and  stood  by  his  side  while  he 
opened  it,  with  a  certain  still  firmness  in  the 
expression  of  her  face,  as  if  she  were  making 
u\>  her  mind  to  some  great  eft'ort.  The  letter 
was  ostensibly  one  of  congratulation.  Lionel 
had  seen  Darrell  the  day  before,  after  the  latter 
had  left  the  Home  Secretary's  office,  and  had 
learned  that  all  which  Justice  could  do  to  repair 
tlie  wrong  iutiicted  had  been  done.  Here  Li- 
onel's words,  though  brief,  were  cordial,  and  al- 
most joyous ;  but  then  came  a  few  sentences 
steeped  in  gloom.  There  was  an  allusion,  vague 
and  delicate  in  itself,  to  the  eventful  conversa- 
tion with  Waife  in  reference  to  Sophy — a  som- 
bre, solentn  farewell  conveyed  to  her  and  to 
hope — a  passionate  praj-er  for  her  hajipiness — 
and  then  an  abrujit  wrench,  as  it  were,  away 
from  a  subject  too  intolerably  painful  to  prolong 
— an  intimation  that  lie  had  succeeded  in  ex- 
changing into  a  regiment  very  shortly  to  be  sent 
into  active  service ;  that  he  should  set  out  the 
next  day  to  join  that  regiment  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  country ;  and  that  he  trusted,  should  his 
life  be  spared  by  war,  that  it  would  be  many 
years  before  he  should  revisit  England.  The 
sense  of  the  letter  was  the  more  atfecting  in 
what  was  concealed  than  in  what  A\as  express- 
ed. Evidently  Lionel  desired  to  convey  to 
Waife,  and  leave  it  to  him  to  inform  Sophy, 
that  she  was  henceforth  to  regard  the  writer  as 
vani.--hcd  out  of  her  existence — dejiarted,  as  ir- 
revocably as  depart  the  Dead. 

While  Waife  was  reading  he  had  turned  him- 
self aside  from  Sophy ;  he  had  risen — he  had 
gone  to  the  deep  recess  of  the  old  muUion  win- 
dow, half  screening  himself  beside  the  curtain. 
Noiselessly  Sophy  followed;  and  when  he  had 
closed  the  letter  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
and  said,  very  quietly,  "  Grandfather,  may  I  read 
that  letter':"' 

Waife  was  startled,  and  replied,  on  the  in- 
stant, "  No,  my  dear." 

"It  is  better  that  I  should,"  said  she,  with 
the  same  quiet  firmness ;  and  then,  seeing  the 
distress  iu  his  face,  she  added,  with  her  more 


accustomed  sweet  docility,  yet  with  a  forlorn 
droop  of  the  head,  "But  as  you  please,  grand- 
father." 

Waife  hesitated  an  instant.  Was  she  not 
right  ? — would  it  not  be  better  to  show  the  let- 
ter? After  all,  she  must  confront  the  fact  that 
Lionel  could  be  nothing  to  her  henceforth  ;  and 
would  not  Lionel's  own  words  wound  her  less 
than  all  Waife  could  say  ?  So  he  put  the  letter 
into  her  hands,  and  sate  down,  watching  her 
countenance. 

At  the  ofiening  sentences  of  congratulatioa 
she  looked  up  inquiringly.  Poor  man  I  he  had 
not  spoken  to  her  of  what  at  another  time  it 
would  have  been  such  joy  to  speak;  and  he 
now,  in  answer  to  her  look,  said,  almost  sadl}', 
"  Onlj'^  about  me,  Sophy ;  what  does  tTiat  mat- 
ter?" But  before  the  girl  read  a  line  farther 
she  smiled  on  him,  and  tenderly  kissed  his  fur- 
rowed brow. 

"Don't  read  on,  Sophy,"  said  he,  quickly. 
She  shook  her  head  and  resumed.  His  eye 
still  upon  her  face,  he  marked  it  changing  as 
the  sense  of  the  letter  grew  upon  her,  till,  as, 
without  a  word,  with  scarce  a  visible  heave  of 
the  bosom,  she  laid  the  letter -on  his  knees,  the 
change  had  become  so  complete  that  it  seemed 
as  if  Another  stood  in  her  place.  In  very 
young  and  sensitive  persons,  esjjecially  female 
(though  I  have  seen  it  even  in  our  hard  sex),  a 
great  and  sudden  shock  or  revulsion  of  feeling 
reveals  itself  thus  in  the  almost  preternatm-al 
alteration  of  the  countenance.  It  is  not  a  mere 
paleness — a  skin-deep  loss  of  color;  it  is  as  if 
the  whole  bloom  of  youth  had  rushed  away ; 
hollows,  never  discernible  before,  ajjpear  in  the 
cheek  that  was  so  round  and  smooth;  the  mus- 
cles fall  as  in  mortal  illness ;  a  havoc,  as  of 
years,  seems  to  have  been  wrought  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  Flame  itself  does  not  so  suddenly  ravage 
— so  suddenly  alter — leave  behind  it  so  ineft'a- 
ble  an  air  of  desolation  and  ruin.  Waife  sprang 
forward  and  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

"  You  will  bear  it,  Sophy !  The  worst  is  over 
now.  Fortitude,  my  child!  —  fortitude!  The 
human  heart  is  wonderfully  sustained  when  it 
is  not  the  conscience  that  weighs  it  down  — 
griefs  that  we  think  at  the  moment  must  kill  us 
wear  themselves  away.  I  speak  the  truth,  for  I 
too  have  suftered  !" 

"  Poor  grandfather  !"  said  Sophy,  gently;  and 
she  said  no  more.  But  when  he  would  have  con- 
tinued to  speak  comfort,  or  exiiort  to  patience, 
she  pressed  his  hand  tightly,  and  laid  her  fin- 
ger on  her  lip.     He  was  hushed  in  an  instant. 

Presently  she  began  to  move  about  the  room, 
busying  herself,  as  usual,  in  those  slight,  scarce 
perceptible  arrangements  liy  which  she  loved  to 
think  that  she  ministered  to  the  old  man"s  sim- 
ple comforts.  She  placed  the  arm-chair  in  his 
favorite  nook  by  the  window,  and  before  it  the 
footstool  for  the  poor  lame  foot ;  and  drew  the 
table  near  the  chair,  and  looked  over  the  books 
that  George  had  selected  for  his  perusal  from 
Darrell's  library  ;  and  chose  the  volume  in  which 
she  saw  his  murk  to  place  nearest  to  his  hand, 
and  tenderly  cleared  the  mist  from  his  reading- 
glass  ;  and  removed  one  or  two  withered  or  ail- 
ing snow-drops  from  the  little  winter  nosegay  she 
had  gathered  for  him  the  day  before — he  watch- 
ing her  all  the  time,  silent  as  herself,  not  daring, 
indeed,  to  speak,  lest  his  heart  should  overfiow. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


285 


These  little  tasks  of  love  over,  she  came  to- 
ward him  a  few  paces,  and  said,  "  Please,  dear 
grandfather,  tell  me  all  about  what  has  happen- 
ed to  3'ourself  which  should  make  us  glad — that 
is,  by-aud-by  ;  but  nothing  as  to  the  rest  of  that 
letter.  I  will  just  thiuk  over  it  by  myself;  but 
never  let  us  talk  of  it,  grandy  dear,  never  more 
— never  more." 


CHAPTER  X. 


Trees  that,  like  the  poplar,  lift  upward  all  their  boughs, 
give  no  shade  and  no  shelter,  whatever  their  height. 
Trees  the  most  loyingly  shelter  and  sliade  us,  when, 
like  the  willow,  the  higher  soar  their  summits,  the 
lowlier  droop  their  boughs. 

Usually,  when  Sophy  left  Waife  in  the  morn- 
ing, she  would  wander  out  into  the  gi'ounds, 
and  he  could  see  her  pass  before  his  window ; 
or  she  would  look  into  the  library,  which  was 
almost  exclusively  given  up  to  the  Morleys,  and 
he  could  hear  her  tread  on  the  old  creaking 
stairs.  But  now  she  had  stolen  into  her  own 
room,  v.hich  communicated  with  his  sitting- 
room — a  small  lobby  alone  intervening — and 
there  she  remained  so  long  that  he  grew  un- 
easy. He  crept  softly  to  her  door  and  listened. 
He  had  a  fineness  of  hearing  almost  equal  to 
his  son's ;  but  he  could  not  hear  a  sob-— not  a 
breath.  At  length  he  softly  opened  the  door, 
and  looked  in  with  caution. 

The  girl  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
quite  still — her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and 
her  finger  to  her  lip,  just  as  she  had  placed  it 
there  when  imploring  silence;  so  still,  it  might 
be  even  slumber.  All  who  have  grieved  respect 
grief.  Waife  did  not  like  to  approach  her ;  but 
he  said,  from  his  stand  at  the  threshold — ''The 
sun  is  quite  bright  now,  Sophy ;  go  out  for  a 
little  while,  darling." 

She  did  not  look  round'— she  did  not  stir ; 
but  she  answered  with  readiness — "Yes,  pres- 
ently." 

So  he  closed  the  door,  and  left  her.  An  hour 
passed  away ;  he  looked  in  again  ;  there  she 
was  still — in  the  same  place,  in  the  same  atti- 
tude. 

"  Sophy,  dear,  it  is  time  to  take  your  walk; 
go — ^Irs.  Morley  is  in  front,  before  my  window. 
I  have  called  to  her  to  wait  for  you." 

"Yes — presently,"  answered  Sophy,  and  she 
did  not  move. 

Waife  was  seriously  alarmed.  He  paused  a 
moment — then  went  back  to  his  room — took  his 
hat  and  his  staff — came  back. 

"  Sophy,  I  should  like  to  hobble  out  and 
breathe  the  air;  it  will  do  me  good.  Will  you 
give  me  your  arm?    I  am  still  very  weak." 

Soj'hy  now  started — shook  back  her  fair  curls 
— rose — put  on  her  bonnet,  and  in  less  than  a 
minute  v.as  by  the  old  man's  side.  Drawing 
his  arm  fondly  into  hers,  they  descend  the 
stairs ;  they  are  in  the  garden ;  Mrs.  Morley 
comes  to  meet  them — then  George.  Waife  ex- 
erts himself  to  talk — to  be  gay — to  protect  So- 
phy's abstracted  silence,  by  his  own  active,  des- 
ultory, erratic  humor.  Twice  or  thrice,  as  he 
leans  on  Sophy's  arm,  she  draws  it  still  nearer 
to  her,  and  presses  it  tenderly.  She  under- 
stands— she  thanks  him.  Hark  !  from  some 
undiscovered  hiding-place  near  the  water — Fair- 


I  thorn's  flute !     The  Music  fills  the  landscape 

as  with   a   living  jjresence ;    the   swans    pause 

upon  the  still  lake — the  tame  doe  steals  through 

yonder  leafless   trees ;    and  now,  musing  and 

I  slow,  from  the  same  desolate  coverts,  comes  the 

I  doe's  master.    The  music  spells  them  all.    Guy 

I  Uarrell  sees  his  guests  where  they  have  halted 

by  the  stone  sun-dial.      He  advances — joins 

them — congratulates  Waife  on  his  first  walk  as 

a  convalescent.     He  quotes  Gray's  well-known 

verses  applicable  to  that  event,*  and  when,  in 

that  voice  sweet  as  the  flute  itself,  he  comes  to 

the  lines — 

"The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  paradise"". — 

Sophy,  as  if  suddenly  struck  with  remorse  at  the 
thought  that  she,  and  she  alone,  was  mamng 
that  opening  paradise  to  the  old  man  in  liis  es- 
cape from  the  sick  room  to  "the  sun,  the  air, 
the  skies,"  abruptly  raised  her  looks  from  the 
ground,  and  turned  them  full  upon  her  guard- 
ian's face,  with  an  attempt  at  gladness  in  her 
quivering  smile,  which,  whatever  its  efl:ect  on 
Waife,  went  straight  to  the  innermost  heart  of 
Guy  Darrell.  On  the  instant  he  recognized, 
as  by  intuitive  sympathy,  the  anguish  from 
which  that  smile  struggled  forth — knew  that, 
Sophy  had  now  learned  that  grief  which  lay 
deep  within  himself — that  grief  which  makes  a 
sick  chamber  of  the  whole  external  world,  and 
which  greets  no  more,  in  the  common  boons 
of  Nature,  the  opening  Paradise  of  recovered 
Hope !  His  eye  lingered  on  her  face  as  its 
smile  waned,  and  perceived  that  chaxge  which 
had  so  startled  Waife.  Involuntarily  he  moved 
to  her  side — involuntarily  drew  her  arm  within 
his  own — she  thus  supporting  the  one  who  cher- 
ished— supported  by  the  one  who  disowned  her. 
Guy  Darrell  might  be  stern  in  resolves  which 
aflSicted  others,  as  he  was  stern  in  afflicting 
himself;  but  for  others  he  had  at  least  compas- 
sion. 

Poor  Waife,  with  nature  so  different,  marked 
Darrell's  movement,  and,  ever  ready  to  seize  on 
comfort,  said  inly — "  He  relents.  I  will  not  go 
to-morrow,  as  I  had  intended.  Sophy  must  win 
her  way  ;  who  can  resist  her?" 

Talk  languished — the  wintry  sun  began  to 
slope — the  air  grew  keen — Waife  was  led  in — 
the  Morleys  went  uj)  into  his  room  to  keep  him 
company  —  Sophy  escaped  back  to  her  own. 
Darrell  continued  his  walk,  plunging  deep  into 
his  maze  of  beechwoods,  followed  by  the  doe. 
The  swans  dip  their  necks  among  the  watei"- 
weeds ;  the  flute  has  ceased,  and  drearily  still 
is  the  gray  horizon,  seen  through  the  skeleton 
boughs — seen  behind  the  ragged  sky-line  of  shaft 
and  parapet  in  the  skeleton  palace. 

Darrell  does  not  visit  Waife's  room  that  day ; 
he  concludes  that  Waife  and  Sophy  would  wish 
to  be  much  alone ;  he  dreads  renewal  of  the 
only  subject  on  which  he  has  no  cheering  word 
to  say.  Sophy's  smile,  Sophy's  face  haunted 
him.  In  vain  he  repeated  to  himself — "Tut,  it 
will  soon  pass — only  a  girl's  first  fancy." 

But  Sophy  does  not  come  back  to  Waife's 
room  when  the  Morleys  have  left  it ;  Waife 
creeps  into  her  room  as  before,  and,  as  before, 
there  she  sits — still  as  if  in  slumber.  She  comes 
in,  however,  of  her  own  accord,  to  assist,  as 
usual,  in  the  meal  which  he  takes  apart  in  his 
•  "See  the  wretch  who  long  has  tost,"  etc. — Geay. 


286 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


room:  helps  him — helps  herself,  but  eats  no-  loquy  which  may  be  heaped  on  ns  bv  that  crowd 
thing.  She  talks,  however,  almost  gayly  ;  hopes  of  mere  strangers  to  us  and  to  each  "other,  which 
he  will  be  well  enough  to  leave  the  next  day ;  is  called  '  the  world,'  yet  to  slink  out  of  sight 
wonders  whether  Sir  Isaac  has  missed  them  from  a  friend,  as  one  more  to  be  shunned  than 
very  much  ;  reads  to  him  Lady  Montfort's  af-  a  foe — to  take,  like  a  coward,  the  lashings  of 
fectionate  letter  to  herself;  and,  when  dinner  ,  scorn — to  wince,  one  raw  sore,  from  the  kind- 
is  over,  and  Waife's  chair  drawn  to  the  fireside,  ness  of  Pity — to  feel  that  in  life  the  sole  end 
she  takes  her  old  habitual  place  on  the  stool  be-  ■  of  each  shift  and  contrivance  is  to  slip  the  view- 
side  him,  and  says — "  Now,  dear  gi-andfather  hallo,  into  a  grave  without  epitaph,  by  paths  as 
— all  about  yourself — what  happy  thing  has  stealthy  and  sly  as  the  poor  hunted  fox,  when 
chanced  to  you  ?"  j  his  last  chance — and  sole  one — is,  by  v,  inding 

Alas  I  poor  Waife  has  but  little  heart  to  and  doubling,  to  run  under  the  earth ;  to  know 
speak;  but  he  forces  himself;  what  he  has  to  I  that  it  would  bean  ungrateful  imposture  to  take 
say  may  do  good  to  her.  ■  chair  at  the  board — at  the  hearth,  of  the  man 

"You  know  that,  on  my  own  account,  I  had  :  who,  unknowing  your  secret,  says — 'Friend,  be 
reasons  for  secrecy — change  of  name.  I  shunned  '  social;'  accepting  not  a  crust  that  one  does  not 
all  those  whom  I  had  ever  known  in  former  pay  for,  lest  one  feel  a  swindler  to  the^cind  fel- 
days ;  could  take  no  calling  in  life  by  which  I  low-creature  whose  equal  we  must  not  be  I — all 
might  be  recognized  ;  deemed  it  a  blessed  mer-  {  this — all  this,  Sophy,  did  at  times  chafe  and  gall 
cy  of  Providence  that  when,  not  able  to  resist  ;  more  than  I  ought  to  have  let  it  do,  considering 
offers  that  would  have  enabled  me  to  provide  for  j  that  there  was  oxe  who  saw  it  all,  and  would — 
you  as  I  never  othenvise  could,  I  assented  to  Don't  cry,  Sophy;  it  is  all  over  now." 
hazard  an  engagement  at  a  London  theatre —  I  "Xot  cry!  Oli,  it  does  me  so  much  good!" 
trusting  for  my  incognito  to  an  actor's  arts  of  "All  over  now!  I  am  under  this  roof — with- 
disguise — came  the  accident  which,  of  itself,  ;  out  shame  or  scruple ;  andif  Guy  Darrell,  know- 
annihilated  the  temptation  into  which  I  had  ;  ing  all  my  past,  has  proved  my  innocence  in  the 
.suffered  myself  to  be  led.  For,  ah  child !  had  '  eyes  of  those  whom  alone  I  cared  for,  I  feel  as 
it  been  known  who  and  what  was  the  William  '  if  I  had  the  right  to  stand  before  any  crowd  of 
Waife  whose  stage-mime  tricks  moved  harmless  men  erect  and  shameless — a  Z^Ian  once  more 
mirth,  or  tears  as  pleasant,  the  audience  would  :  with  Men !  Oh,  darling,  let  me  but  see  thy  old 
have  risen,  not  to  applaud,  but  hoot — 'Off,  off,'  ^  happy  smile  again  !  The  happy  smiles  of  the 
from  both  worlds  —  the  ilimic  as  the  Real !    young  are  the  sunshine  of  the  old.     Be  patient 


Well,  had  I  been  dishonest,  you — you  alone 
felt  that  I  could  not  have  dared  to  take  you, 
guiltless  infant,  by  the  hand.  You  remember 
that,  on  my  return  to  Rugge's  wandering  thea- 
tre, bringing  you  with  me,  I  exaggerated  the 
effects  of  my  accident — affected  to  have  lost 
voice — stipulated  to  be  spared  appearing  on  his 
stage.  That  was  not  the  mere  pride  of  man- 
hood shrinking  from  the  display  of  physical  af- 
flictions. No.  In  the  first  village  that  we  ar- 
rived at  I  recognized  an  old  friend,  and  I  saw 


-be  firm  ;  Providence  is  so  very  kind,  Sophy." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Waife  exacts  from  George  Movley  the  fulfillment  of  one 
of  those  promises  which  mean  nothing  or  every  thing. 

The  next  day  George  ^lorley  visited  Waife's 
room  earlier  than  usual.  Waife  had  sent  for 
him.  Sophy  was  seated  by  her  grandfather — 
that,  in  spite  of  time,  and  the  accident  that  had  his  hand  in  hers.  She  had  been  exerting  her- 
disfigured  me,  he  recognized  me,  and  turned  :  self  to  the  utmost  to  talk  cheerfully — to  shake 
away  his  face,  as  if  in  loathing.  An  old  friend,  from  her  aspect  every  cloud  of  sorrow.  But 
Sophy — an  old  friend  I  Oh,  it  pierced  me  to  j  still  that  chaxge  was  there — more  marked 
the  heart ;  and  I  resolved,  from  that  day,  to  es-  ]  than  even  on  the  previous  day.  A  few  hours 
cape  from  Rugge's  stage ;  and  I  consented,  till  '  of  intense  struggle,  a  single  night  wholly  with- 
the  means  of  escape,  and  some  less  dependent  j  out  sleep,  will  tell  on  the  face  of  early  youth, 
mode  of  livelihood  were  found,  to  live  on  thy  I  Not  till  we,  hard  veterans,  have  gone  through 
earnings,  child;  for  if  I  were  discovered  by  oth-  \  such  struggles  as  life  permits  not  to  the  slight 
er  old  friends,  and  they  spoke  out,  my  disgrace  [  responsibilities  of  new  recruits — not  till  sleepless 
would  reflect  on  you,  and  better  to  accept  sup-  |  nights  have  grown  to  us  familiar — will  Thought 
port  from  you  than  that !  Alas !  appearances  j  seem  to  take,  as  it  were,  strength,  not  exhaust- 
were  so  strong  against  me  I  never  deemed  they  '  ion,  from  unrelaxing  exercise  —  nourish  the 
could  be  cleared  away,  even  from  the  sight  of  -  brain,  sustain  the  form  by  its  own  untiring, 
my  nearest  friends.  But  Providence,  you  know,  i  fleshless,  spiritual  immortality;  not  till  many  a 
has  been  so  kind  to  us  hitherto ;  and  so  Provi-  j  winter  has  stnpped  the  leaves ;  not  till  deep, 
dence  will  be  kind  to  us  again,  Sophy.  And  and  far  out  of  sight,  spread  the  roots  that  sup- 
now,  the  very  man  I  thought  most  hard  to  me  port  the  stem — will  the  beat  of  the  east  wind 
— this  very  Guy  Darrell,  under  whose  roof  we    leave  no  sign  on  the  rind, 

are — has  been  the  man  to  make  those  whose  j  George  had  not,  indeed,  so  noticed  the  day 
opinion  I  most  value  know  that  I  am  not  dis-  before  the  kind  of  withering  blight  that  hacl 
honest;  and  Providence  has  raised  a  witness  on  I  passed  over  the  girl's  countenance;  but  he  did 
my  behalf  in  that  very  Mr.  Ilartopp  who  judged  now — when  she  met  his  eye  more  steadfastly, 
me  (and  any  one  else  might  have  done  the  same)  '  and  had  resumed  something  of  the  open  genial 
too  bad  to  be  fit  company  for  you!  And  that  is  infantine  grace  of  manner  which  constituted  her 
why  I  am  congratulated;  and  oh,  Sophy!  though  !  peculiar  charm,  and  which  it  was  difficult  to  as- 
I  have  borne  it  as  Heaven  does  enable  us  to  bear  !  sociate  with  deeper  griefs  than  those  of  child- 
what  of  ourselves  we  could  not,  and  though  one  l  hood, 
learns  to  shrug  a  patient  shoulder  under  the  ob-  I      "  You  must  scold  my  grandfather,"  she  said. 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


287 


"  He  chooses  to  fancy  that  he  is  not  well  enough 
yet  to  leave  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  he  is,  and  will 
recover  more  quickly  at  home  than  here." 

"Pooh!"  said  Waife ;  "you  young  things 
suppose  we  old  folks  can  be  as  brisk  as  your- 
selves ;  but  if  I  am  to  be  scolded,  leave  Mr. 
George  unawed  by  your  presence,  and  go  out, 
my  dear,  while  the  sun  lasts;  I  know  by  the 
ways  of  that  blackbird  that  the  day  will  be  over- 
cast by  noon." 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  George  said,  ab- 
ruptly, "  Your  Sophy  is  looking  very  ill,  and,  if 
you  are  well  enough  to  leave,  it  might  be  better 
for  her  to  move  from  this  gloomy  house.  Move- 
ment itself  is  a  great  restorative,"  added  George, 
with  emphasis. 

"  You  see,  then,  that  she  looks  ill — very  ill," 
said  Waife,  deliberately;  "and  there  is  that 
in  your  manner  which  tells  me  you  guess  the 
cause." 

"I  do  guess  it,  from  the  glimpse  which  I 
caught  of  Lionel's  face  after  he  had  been  clos- 
eted a  short  time  with  Mr.  Darrell  at  my  uncle's 
house  two  days  ago.  I  guess  it  also  from  a  let- 
ter I  have  received  from  my  uncle." 

"You  guess  right — very  right,"  said  Waife, 
still  with  the  same  serious,  tranquil  manner. 
"I  showed  her  this  letter  from  young  Haugh- 
ton.  Read  it."  George  hurried  his  eye  over 
the  letter,  and  i-eturned  it  silently.  Waife  pro- 
ceeded. 

"I  was  frightened  yesterday  by  the  strange 
composure  she  showed.  In  her  face  alone  could 
be  read  what  she  suffered.  We  talked  last  night. 
I  spoke  of  myself — of  my  old  sorrows — in  order 
to  give  her  strength  to  support  hers ;  and  tlie 
girl  has  a  heroic  nature,  Sir.  George — and  she 
is  resolved  to  conquer  or  to  die.  But  she  will 
not  conquer." 

George  began  the  usual  strain  of  a  consoler 
in  such  trials.  Waife  stopped  him.  "All  that 
you  can  say,  i\Ir.  George,  I  know  beforehand ; 
and  she  will  need  no  exhortation  to  prayer  and 
to  fortitude.  I  stole  from  my  room  when  it  was 
almost  dawn.  I  saw  light  under  the  door  of  her 
chamber.  I  just  looked  in — softly — unperceived. 
She  had  not  gone  to  bed.  She  was  by  the  open 
window^stars  dying  out  of  the  sky — kneeling 
on  the  floor,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  She 
has  prayed.  In  her  soul,  at  this  moment,  be 
sure  that  she  is  praying  now.  She  will  devote 
herself  to  me — she  will  be  cheerful — you  will 
hear  her  laugh,  Mr.  George :  but  she  "will  not 
conquer  in  this  world ;  long  before  the  new  year 
is  out  she  will  be  looking  down  upon  our  grief 
with  her  bright  smile  ;  but  we  shall  not  seeher, 
Mr.  George.  Do  not  think  this  is  an  old  man's 
foolish  terror ;  I  know  sorrow  as  physicians  know 
disease ;  it  has  its  mortal  symptoms.  Hush ! 
hear  me  out.  I  have  one  hope — it  is  in  you." 
"  In  me?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  remember  that  you  said,  if  I 
could  succeed  in  opening  to  your  intellect  its 
fair  career,  you  would  be  the  best  friend  to 


me  man  ever  had ;  and  I  said,  '  Agreed,  but 
change  the  party  in  the  contract;  befriend  my 
Sophy  instead  of  me,  and,  if  ever  I  ask  you,  help 
me  in  aught  for  her  welfare  and  happiness  ;' 
and  you  said,  '  With  heart  and  soul.'  That  was 
the  bargain,  jNIr.  George.  Now,  you  have  all 
that  you  then  despaired  of;  you  have  the  dignity 
of  your  sacred  calling — you  have  the  eloquence 
of  the  preacher.  I  can  not  cope  with  JMr.  Dar- 
rell— you  can.  He  has  a  heart— it  can  be  soft- 
ened ;  he  has  a  soul— it  can  be  freed  from  the 
withes  that  tether  it  down  ;  he  has  the  virtues 
you  can  appeal  to ;  and  he  has  the  pride  which 
you,  as  a  Christian  minister,  have  the  right  to 
prove  to  be  a  sin.  I  can  not  argue  with  him  ; 
I  can  not  reprove  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  so 
much.  All  ranks  of  men  and  of  mind  should 
be  equal  to  you,  the  pastor,  the  divine,  l^ou 
ministers  of  the  Gospel  address  yourselves  un- 
abashed to  the  poor,  the  hunable,  the  uninstruct- 
ed.  Did  Heaven  give  you  power  and  command- 
ment over  these  alone  ?  Go,  Preacher  !  go  ! 
Speak  with  the  same  authority  to  the  great,  to 
the  haughty,  to  the  wise !" 

The  old  man's  look  and  gesture  were  sublime. 

The  Preacher  felt  a  thrill  vibrate  from  his  ear 
to  his  heart ;  but  his  reason  was  less  affected 
than  his  heart.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
The  task  thus  assigned  to  him  was  beyond  the 
limits  which  custom  prescribes  to  the  priest  of 
the  English  Church  —  dictation  to  a  man  not 
even  of  his  own  flock,  upon  the  closest  affairs  of 
that  man's  own  private  hearth  and  home !  Our 
society  allows  no  such  privilege ;  and  our  so- 
ciety is  right. 

Waife,  watching  his  countenance,  saw  at  once 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  and  resumed,  as 
if  aTiswering  George's  own  thought. 

' '  Ay,  if  you  were  but  tJie  commonplace  priest ! 
But  you  are  something  more ;  you  are  the  priest 
specially  endowed  for  all  special  purposes  of 
good.  You  have  the  mind  to  reason — the  tongue 
to  persuade — the  majestic  earnestness  of  impas- 
sioned zeal.  Xor  are  you  here  the  priest  alone ; 
you  are  here  the  friend,  the  confidant,  of  all  for 
whom  you  may  exert  your  powers.  Oh,  George 
Morley,  I  am  a  poor  ignorant  blunderer  when 
presuming  to  exhort  yon  as  Christian  minister; 
but  in  your  own  words — I  address  you  as  man 
and  gentleman— you  declared  that  '  thought  and 
zeal  should  not  stammer  whenever  I  said — Keep 
your  ]n-omise.'  I  say  it  now— Keejj  faith  to  the 
child  you  swore  to  me  to  befriend !" 

"  I  will  go — and  at  once,"  said  George,  rising. 
"But  be  not  sanguine.  I  see  not  a  chance  of 
success.  A  man  so  superior  to  myself  in  years, 
station,  abilities,  repute !" 

"Where  would  be  Christianity,"  said  Waife, 
"  if  the  earliest  preachers  had  raised  such  ques- 
tions? There  is  a  soldier's  courage — is  there 
not  a  priest's  ?" 

George  made  no  answer,  but,  with  abstracted 
eye,  gathered  brow,  and  slow  meditative  step, 
quitted  the  room,  and  sought  Guy  Darrell. 


288 


WliAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


BOOK      XII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  man  of  the  World  shows  more  indifference  to  the 
things  and  doctrines  of  the  World  than  might  be  sup- 
posed.— Ijiit  he  vindicates  liis  character,  which  might 
otiierwise  be  jeopardized,  by  the  adroitness  with  which, 
having  resolved  to  roast  cliestnuts  in  the  ashes  of  an- 
other raan"s  hearth,  he  handles  them  when  hottest  by 
the  proxy  of  a — Cat's  paw. 

In  the  letter  which  George  told  Waife  he  had 
received  from  his  uncle,  George  had  an  excuse 
for  the  delicate  and  arduous  mission  he  under- 
took, which  he  did  not  confide  to  the  old  man, 
lest  it  should  convey  more  hopes  than  its  nature 
justified.  In  this  letter  Alban  related,  with  a 
degree  of  feeling  that  he  rarely  manifested,  his 
farewell  conversation  with  Lionel,  who  had  just 
departed  to  join  his  new  regiment.  The  poor 
young  man  had  buoyed  himself  uj>  with  delight- 
ed expectations  of  the  result  of  Sophy's  prolonged 
residence  under  Darrell's  roof;  he  had  persuaded 
his  reason  that  when  Darrell  had  been  thus  en- 
abled to  see  and  judge  of  her  for  himself,  he 
would  be  irresistibly  attracted  toward  her  ;  that 
Innocence,  like  Truth,  would  be  mighty  and 
prevail ; — Darrell  was  engaged  in  the  attempt 
to  clear  William  Losely's  name  and  blood  from 
the  taint  of  felony; — Alban  was  commissioned 
to  negotiate  with  Jasper  Losely  on  any  terms 
that  would  remove  all  chance  of  future  disgrace 
from  that  quarter.  Oh  yes !  to  poor  Lionel's 
eyes,  obstacles  vanished  —  the  future  became 
clear.  And  thus,  when,  after  telling  him  of 
his  final  interview  with  the  minister,  Darrell 
said,  "I  trust  that,  in  bringing  to  William  Lose- 
ly this  intelligence,  I  shall  at  least  soften  his 
disappointment,  when  I  make  it  thoroughly  clear 
to  him  how  impossible  it  is  that  his  Sophy  can 
ever  be  more  to  me — to  us  —  than  a  stranger 
whose  virtues  create  an  interest  in  her  welfare" 
— Lionel  was  stunned  as  by  a  blow.  Scarcely 
could  he  murmur — 

"  You  have  seen  her — and  your  resolve  re- 
mains the  same." 

"Can  you  doubt  it?"  answered  Darrell,  as 
if  in  surprise.  "The  resolve  may  now  give  me 
pain  on  my  account,  as  before  it  gave  me  pain 
on  yours.  But  if  not  moved  by  your  pain,  can 
I  be  moved  by  mine  ?  That  would  be  a  base- 
ness." 

The  Colonel,  in  depicting  Lionel's  state  of 
mind  after  the  young  soldier  had  written  his 
farewell  to  Waife,  and  previous  to  quitting  Lon- 
don, expressed  very  gloomy  forebodings:  "  I  do 
not  say,"  wrote  he,  "that  Lionel  will  guiltily 
seek  death  in  the  field,  noi^  does  death  there 
come  more  to  those  who  seek  than  to  those  who 
shun  it ;  but  he  will  go  Ufion  a  service  exposed 
to  more  than  ordinary  sntfering,  ])rivation,  and 
disease — without  that  rallying  power  of  hope — 
that  Will  and  Desire  to  Live,  whicli  constitute 
the  true  stamina  of  Youth.  And  I  have  always 
set  a  black  mark  upon  those  who  go  into  war 
joyless  and  despondent.  Send  a  young  fellow 
to  the  camp  with  his  spirits  broken,   his  heart 


heavy  as  a  lump  of  lead,  and  the  first  of  those 
epidemics  which  thin  ranks  more  than  the  can- 
non says  to  itself,  '  There  is  a  man  for  me !' 
Any  doctor  will  tell  you  that,  even  at  home,  the 
gay  and  light-hearted  walk  safe  through  the 
pestilence,  that  settles  on  the  moping  as  malaria 
settles  on  a  marsh.  Confound  Guy  Darrell's 
ancestors,  they  have  spoiled  Queen  Victoria  as 
good  a  young  soldier  as  ever  wore  sword. by  his 
side.  Six  months  ago,  and  how  blithely  Li- 
onel Haughton  looked  forth  to  the  future  I ' — all 
laurel ! — no  cypress !  And  now,  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  shaken  hands  with  a  victim  sacrificed  by 
Superstition  to  the  tombs  of  the  dead.  I  can 
not  blame  Darrell :  I  dare  say  in  the  same  posi- 
tion 1  might  do  the  same.  JBut  no  ;  on  second 
thoughts  I  should  not !  If  Darrell  does  not 
choose  to  marry  and  have  sons  of  his  own,  he 
has  no  right  to  load  a  poor  boy  with  benefits, 
and  say,  '  There  is  but  one  way  to  prove  your 
gratitude ;  remember  my  ancestors,  and  be  mis- 
erable for  the  rest  of  your  days !'  Darrell,  for- 
sooth, intends  to  leave  to  Lionel  the  transmis- 
sion of  the  old  Darrell  name ;  and  the  old  Dar- 
rell name  must  not  be  tarnished  by  the  marriage 
on  which  Lionel  has  unluckily  set  his  heart!  I 
respect  the  old  name ;  but  it  is  not  like  the 
House  of  Vipont — a  British  Institution.  And 
■if  some  democratical  cholera,  which  does  not 
care  a  rash  for  old  names,  caiTies  off  Lionel, 
what  becomes  of  tlie  old  name  then  ?  Lionel 
is  not  Darrell's  son  ;  Lionel  need  not,  perforce, 
take  the  old  name.  Let  the  j'oung  man  live  as 
Lionel  Haughton,  and  the  old  name  die  with 
Guy  Darrell ! 

"As  to  the  poor  girl's  birth  and  parentage,  I 
believe  we  shall  never  know  them.  I  quite  agree 
with  Darrell  that  it  will  be  wisest  never  to  in- 
quire. But  I  dismiss,  as  far-fetched  and  improb- 
able, his  supposition  that  she  is  Gabrie'lle  Des- 
maret's  daughter.  To  me  it  is  infinitely  more 
likely,  either  that  the  deposition  of  the  Nurse, 
which  poor  Willy  gave  to  Darrell,  and  which 
Darrell  showed  to  me,  is  true  (only,  that  Jasper 
was  conniving  at  the  temporary  suspension  of 
his  child's  existence  while  it  suited  his  purpose) 
— or  that,  at  the  worst,  this  mysterious  young 
lady  is  the  daughter  of  the  artiste.  In  the  for- 
mer supposition,  as  I  have  said  over  and  over 
again,  a  marriage  between  Lionel  and  Sophy  is 
precisely  that  which  Darrell  should  desire ;  in 
the  latter  case,  of  course,  if  Lionel  were  the  head 
of  the  House  of  Vipont,  the  idea  of  such  a  un- 
ion would  be  inadmissible.  But  Lionel,  enire 
nous,  is  theson  of  a  ruined  spendthrift  by  a  linen- 
draper's  daughter.  And  Darrell  has  but  to  give 
the  handsome  young  couple  five  or  six  thousand 
a  year,  and  I  know  the  world  well  enough  to 
know  that  the  world  will  trouble  itself  very  little 
about  their  pedigrees.  And  really  Lionel  should 
be  left  wholly  free  to  choose  whether  he  prefer 
a  girl  whom  he  loves  with  his  whole  heart,  five 
or  six  thousand  a  year,  happiness,  and  the  chance 
of  honors  in  a  glorious  profession  to  which  he 


TVHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


289 


vrill  then  look  with  glad  spirits — or  a  life-long 
misery,  with  the  right,  after  Darrell's  death — 
that  i  hope  will  not  be  these  thirty  years — to 
bear  the  name  of  Darrell  instead  of  Haughton  ; 
which,  if  I  were  the  last  of  the  Haughtons,  and 
had  any  family  pride — as,  thank  Heaven,  I  have 
not — would  be  a  painful  exchange  to  me ;  and 
dearly-bought  by  the  addition  of  some  additional 
thousands  a  year,  when  I  had  grown  perhaps  as 
little  disposed  to  spend  them  as  Guy  Darrell 
himself  is.  But,  after  all,  there  is  one  I  com- 
passionate even  more  than  young  Haughton. 
My  morning  rides  of  late  have  been  much  in 
the  direction  of  Twickenham,  visiting  our  fair 
cousin  Lady  Montfort.  I  went  first  to  lecture 
her  for  letting  these  young  people  see  so  much 
of  each  other.  But  my  anger  melted  into  ad- 
miration and  sympathy  when  I  found  with  what 
tender,  exquisite,  matchless  friendship  she  had 
been  ail  the  while  scheming  for  Darrell's  hap- 
piness ;  and  with  what  remorse  she  now  con- 
templated the  sorrow  which  a  friendship  so  grate- 
ful, and  a  belief  so  natural,  had  innocently  oc- 
casioned.   That  remorse  is  wearing  her  to  death. 

Dr.  F ,  who  attended  poor  dear  Willy,  is 

also  attending  her;  and  he  told  me  privately 
that  his  skill  was  in  vain  —  that  her  case  baf- 
fled him ;  and  he  had  very  serious  apprehen- 
sions. Darrell  owes  some  consideration  to  such 
a  friend.  And  to  think  that  here  are  lives  per- 
manently imbittered,  if  not  risked,  by  the  ruth- 
less obstinacy  of  the  best-liearted  man  I  ever 
met  I  Now,  though  I  have  already  intimated 
my  opinions  to  Darrell  with  a  candor  due  to  the 
oldest  and  dearest  of  my  friends,  yet  I  have  nev- 
er, of  course,  in  the  letters  I  have  written  to 
him,  or  the  talk  we  have  had  together,  spoken 
out  as  plainly  as  I  do  in  writing  to  you.  And 
having  thus  WTitten,  without  awe  of  his  gray 
eye  and  dark  brow,  I  have  half  a  mind  to  add — 
'seize  him  in  a  happy  moment  and  show  him 
this  letter.'  Yes,  I  give  you  full  leave ;  show  it 
to  him  if  you  think  it  would  avail.  If  not,  throw 
it  into  the  tire,  and  pray  Heaven  for  those  whom 
we  poor  mortals  can  not  serve." 

On  the  envelope  Alban  had  added  these  words 
— "But,  of  course,  before  showing  the  inclosed, 
you  will  prepare  Darrell's  mind  to  weigh  its  con- 
tents." And  probably  it  was  in  that  curt  and 
simple  injunction  that  the  subtle  man  of  the 
world  evinced  the  astuteness  of  which  not  a  trace 
was  apparent  in  the  body  of  his  letter. 

Though  Alban's  communication  had  mnch  ex- 
cited his  nephew,  yet  George  had  not  judged  it 
discreet  to  avail  himself  of  the  permission  to 
*how  it  to  Darrell.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
pride  of  his  host  would  take  much  more  oii'ense 
at  its  transmission  through  the  hands  of  a  third 
person  than  at  the  frank  tone  of  its  reasonings 
and  suggestions.  And  George  had  determined 
to  reinclose  it  to  the  Colonel,  urging  him  to  for- 
ward it  himself  to  Darrell  just  as  it  was,  with 
but  a  brief  line  to  say,  '"that,  on  reflection,  Al- 
ban submitted,  direct  to  his  old  school-fellow,  the 
reasonings  and  apprehensions  which  he  had  so 
unresenedly  poured  forth  in  a  letter  commenced 
without  the  intention  at  which  the  writer  arrived 
at  the  close."  But  now  that  the  preacher  had 
undertaken  the  duty  of  an  advocate  the  letter 
became  his  brief. 

George  passed  throngh  the  library,  through  the 
study,  up  the  narrow  stair  that  finally  conducted 


to  the  same  lofty  cell  in  which  Darrell  had  con- 
fronted the  midnight  robber  who  claimed  a  child 
in  Sophy.  With  a  nervous  hand  George  knocked 
at  the  door. 

Unaccustomed  to  any  intrusion  on  the  part  of 
guest  or  household  in  that  solitaiw  retreat,  some- 
what sharply,  as  if  in  anger,  Darrell's  voice  ao- 
swered  the  knock. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

"George  Morley." 

Darrell  opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  n. 


"  A  good  archer  is  not  known  by  his  arrows,  bnt  his  aim." 
'■A  good  man  is  no  more  to  be  feared  than  a  sheep." 
"A  good  surgeon  must  have  an  eagle's  eye,  a  lion's 
heart,  and  a  lady's  hand."  "A  good  tongue  is  a  good 
weapon."  And  despite  those  suggestive  or  encoura- 
ging proverbs,  George  Morley  lias  undertaken  some- 
thing so  opposed  to  all  proverbial  philosophy,  tliat  it  he- 
comes  a  grave  question  what  he  will  do  with  it. 

"I  COME,"  said  George,  "to  ask  yon  one  of 
the  greatest  favors  a  man  can  confer  upon  an- 
other ;  it  will  take  some  little  time  to  explain. 
Are  you  at  leisure?" 
Darrell's  brow  relaxed. 

"  Seat  yourself  in  comfort,  my  dear  George. 
If  it  be  in  my  power  to  serve  or  to  gratify  Alban 
ISIorley's  nephew,  it  is  I  who  receive  a  favor." 
Darrell  thought  to  himself,  "the  young  man  is 
ambitious — I.  may  aid  in  his  path  toward  a 
See!" 

George  Moklet.  "First  let  me  say  that  I 
would  consult  your  intellect  on  a  matter  which 
habitually  attracts  and  engages  mine — that  old 
vexed  question  of  the  origin  and  uses  of  Evil, 
not  only  in  the  physical,  but  the  moral  world ; 
it  involves  problems  over  which  I  would  ponder 
for  hours  as  a  boy — on  which  I  wrote  essays 
as  a  schoolman — on  which  I  perpetually  collect 
illustrations  to  fortify  my  views  as  a  theolo- 
gian." 

"He  is  writing  p  Book,"  thought  Darrell, 
enviously ;  "and  a  book  on  such  a  subject  will 
last  him  all  his  life.     Happy  man !" 

George  Morley.  "The  Pastor,  you  know, 
is  frequently  consulted  by  the  suff'ering  and  op- 
pressed ;  frequently  called  upon  to  answer  that 
question  in  which  the  skepticism  of  the  humble 
and  the  ignorant  ordinarily  begins — 'Why  am  I 
suff'ering?  Why  am  I  oppressed?  Is  this  the 
justice  of  Providence  ?  Has  the  Great  Father 
that  benign  pity,  that  watchful  care  for  his  chil- 
dren which  you  preachers  tell  us  ?'  Ever  intent 
on  deducing  examples  from  the  lives  to  M'hich 
the  clew  has  become  apparent,  must  be  the 
Priest  who  has  to  reason  with  Atiiiction  caused 
by  no  apparent  fault ;  and  where,  judged  by  the 
canons  of  Human  justice,  cloud  and  darkness 
obsctire  the  Divine — still  to  '  vindicate  the  ways 
of  God  to  man.' " 

Darrell.  "  A  philosophy  that  preceded,  and 

will  outlive,  all  other  schools.     It  is  twin-born 

with  the  worid  itself.     Go  on  ;  though  the  theme 

be  inexhaustible,  its  interest  never  flags." 

1      George  Morlet.  "  Has  it  struck  you,  Mr. 

■  Darrell,  that  few  lives  have  ever  passed  under 

j  your  survey  in  which  the  inexpressible  tender- 

'  ness  of  the"  Omniscient  has  been  more  visibly 

J  clear  than  in  that  of  your  guest  William  Losely  ?" 


290 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


Daerell  (surprised).  "Clear?  To  me,  I 
confess  that  if  ever  there  were  an  instance  in 
which  the  Divine  tenderness,  the  Divine  justice, 
which  I  can  never  presume  to  doubt,  was  yet 
undiscernible  to  my  bounded  vision,  it  is  in  the 
instance  of  the  very  life  you  refer  to.  I  see  a 
man  of  admirable  virtues — of  a  childlike  sim- 
plicity of  character,  which  makes  him  almost 
unconscious  of  the  grandeur  of  his  own  soul — 
involved  by  a  sublime  self-sacrifice — by  a  virtue, 
not  by  a  fault — in  the  most  dreadful  of  human 
calamities — ignominious  degradation  ; — hurled 
in  the  mid-day  of  life  from  the  sphere  of  honest 
men — a  felon's  brand  on  his  name — a  vagrant 
in  his  age ;  justice  at  last,  but  tardy  and  niggard, 
and  giving  him  but  little  joy  when  it  arrives; 
because,  ever  thinking  only  of  others,  his  heart 
is  wrapped  in  a  child  whom  he  can  not  make 
happy  in  the  way  in  which  his  hopes  have  been 
set! — George — no,  your  illustration  might  be 
turned  by  a  skeptic  into  an  argument  against 
you." 

George  Morley.  "Not  unless  the  skeptic 
refused  the  elementary  starting-ground  from 
which  you  and  I  may  reason ;  not  if  it  be 
granted  that  Man  has  a  soul,  which  it  is  the  ob- 
ject of  this  life  to  enrich  and  develop  for  an- 
other. We  know  from  my  uncle  what  William 
Losely  was  before  this  calamity  befell  him — a 
genial  boon-companion — a  careless,  frank,  'good 
fellow' — all  the  virtues  you  now  praise  in  him 
dormant,  unguessed  even  by  himself.  Sudden- 
ly came  Calamity! — suddenly  arose  the  Soul! 
Degradation  of  name,  and  with  it  dignity  of 
nature  ?  How  poor,  how  slight,  how  insignifi- 
cant William  Losely,  the  hanger-on  of  rural 
Thanes,  compared  with  that  William  Waife 
whose  entrance  into  this  house,  you — despite 
that  felon's  brand  when  you  knew  it  was  the 
martyr's  glory — greeted  with  noble  reverence : 
whom,  when  the  mind  itself  was  stricken  down 
— only  the  soul  left  to  the  wreck  of  the  body — 
you  tendt'd  with  such  pious  care  as  he  lay  on 
your  father's  bed !  And  do  you,  who  hold  No- 
bleness in  such  honor — do  you,  of  all  men,  tell 
me  that  you  can  not  recognize  that  Celestial 
tenderness  which  ennobled  a  Spirit  for  all  Eter- 
nity?" 

"  George,  you  are  right!"  cried  Darrell ;  "  and 
I  was  a  blockhead  and  blunderer,  as  man  always 
is  when  he  mistakes  a  speck  in  his  telescope  for 
a  blotch  in  the  sun  of  a  system." 

Gkorge  Morley.  "But  more  difficult  it  is  to 
recognize  the  mysterious  agencies  of  Heavenly 
Love  when  no  great  worldly  adversity  forces  us 
to  pause  and  question.  Let  Fortune  strike  down 
a  victim,  and  even  the  heathen  cries  'This  is 
the  hand  of  God !'  But  where  Fortune  brings 
no  vicissitude ;  where  her  wheel  runs  smooth, 
dropping  wealth  or  honors  as  it  rolls — where 
Affliction  centres  its  work  within  the  secret,  un- 
revealing  heart — there,  even  the  wisest  man 
may  not  readily  perceive  by  what  means  Heaven 
is  admonishing,  forcing,  or  wooing  him  nearer 
to  itself.  I  take  the  case  of  a  man  in  whom 
Heaven  acknowledges  a  favored  son.  I  assume 
his  outward  life  crowned  with  successes,  his 
mind  stored  with  opulent  gifts,  his  natui'e  en- 
dowed with  lofty  virtues  ;  what  an  heir  to  train 
through  the  brief  school  of  earth  for  due  place 
in  the  ages  that  roll  on  forever!  But  this  man 
has  a  parasite  weed  in  each  bed  of  a  soul  rich 


in  flowers ;  weed  and  flowers  intertwined,  stem 
with  stem — their  fibres  uniting  even  deep  down 
to  the  root.  Can  you  not  conceive  with  what 
untiring  vigilant  care  Heaven  will  seek  to  dis- 
entangle the  flower  from  the  weed  ? — how  (drop- 
ping inadequate  metaphor)  Heaven  will  select 
for  its  warning  chastisements  that  very  error 
which  the  man  has  so  blent  with  his  virtues  that 
he  holds  it  a  virtue  itself? — how,  gradually, 
slowly,  pertinaciously,  it  will  gather  this  beau- 
tiful nature  all  to  itself — insist  on  a  sacrifice  it 
would  ask  from  no  other?  To  complete  the 
true  nature  of  poor  William  Losely,  Heaven 
ordained  the  sacrifice  of  worldly  repute ;  to 
complete  the  true  nature  of  Guy  Darrell,  God 
ordains  him  the  sacrifice  of  pride  !" 

Darrell  started — half  rose  ;  his  eye  flashed — 
his  cheek  paled ;  but  he  remained  silent. 

"  I  have  approached  the  favor  I  supplicate," 
resumed  George,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  as  of 
relief.  "  Greater  favor  man  can  scarcely  bestow 
upon  his  fellow.  I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I 
respect,  and  love,  and  honor  you  sufficiently  to 
be  for  a  while  so  lifted  up  into  your  friendship, 
that  I  may  claim  the  privilege,  without  which 
friendship  is  but  a  form — just  as  no  freedom  is 
more  obnoxious  than  intrusion  on  confidence 
withheW,  so  no  favor,  I  repeat,  more  precious 
than  the  confidence  which  a  man  of  worth 
vouchsafes  to  him  who  invites  it  with  no  claim 
but  the  loyalty  of  his  motives." 

Said  Darrell,  softened,  but  with  stateliness — 
"All  human  lives  are  as  separate  circles;  they 
may  touch  at  one  point  in  friendly  approach, 
but,  even  where  they  touch,  each  rounds  itself 
from  oft"  the  other.  With  this  hint  I  am  con- 
tented to  ask  at  what  point  in  my  circle  you 
would  touch  ?" 

George  Morley.  "I  thank  you  gratefully; 
I  accept  yoiu-  illustration.  The  point  is  touched; 
I  need  no  other."  He  paused  a  moment,  as  if 
concentrating  all  his  thoughts,  and  then  said, 
with  musing  accents — "  Yes,  I  accept  your  ilUis- 
tration  ;  I  will  even  strengthen  the  force  of  the 
truth  implied  in  it  by  a  more  homely  illustration 
of  my  own.  There  are  small  skeleton  abridg- 
ments of  history  which  we  give  to  children.  In 
such  a  year  a  king  was  crowned — a  battle  was 
fought ;  there  was  some  great  disaster,  or  some 
great  triumph.  Of  the  true  progress  and  de- 
velopment of  the  nation  whose  record  is  thus 
epitomized — of  the  complicated  causes  which 
lead  to  these  salient  events — of  the  animated, 
varied,  multitudinous  life  which  has  been  hurry- 
ing on  from  epoch  to  epoch,  the  abridgment 
tells  nothing.  It  is  so  with  the  life  of  each  in-, 
dividual  man  ;  the  life  as  it  stands  before  us  is 
but  a  sterile  epitome — hid  from  our  sight  the 
emotions  which  are  the  People  of  the  Heart. 
In  such  a  year  occurred  a  visible  something — a 
gain — a  loss — a  success — a  disappointment ;  the 
People  of  the  Heart  crowned  or  deposed  a  king. 
This  is  all  we  know;  and  the  most  voluminous 
biography  ever  written  must  still  be  a  meagre 
abridgment  of  all  that  really  individualized  and 
formed  a  man.  I  ask  not  your  confidence  in  a 
single  detail  or  fact  in  your  existence  which  lies 
beyond  my  sight.  Far  from  me  so  curious  an 
insolence  ;  but  I  do  ask  you  this — Reflecting  on 
your  past  life  as  a  whole,  have  not  your  chief 
sorrows  had  a  common  idiosyncrasy  ?  Have 
they  not  been  strangely  directed  toward  the 


WHAT  ATTLL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


291 


frustration  of  some  one  single  object — cherished 
by  your  earliest  hopes,  and,  as  it  in  defiance  of 
fate,  resolutely  clunij  to  even  now?" 

"It  is  true,"  muttered  Darrell.  "You  do 
not  offend  me  ;  go  on  I" 

"  And  have  not  these  Sorrows,  in  frustrating 
your  object,  often  assumed,  too,  a  certain  uni- 
formity in  the  weapons  they  use,  in  the  quarter 
they  harass  or  invade,  almost  as  if  it  were  a 
strategic  policy  that  guided  them  where  they 
could  most  pain,  or  humble,  or  eject  a  Foe 
that  they  were  ordered  to  storm  ?  Degrade  you 
they  could  not ;  such  was  not  their  mission. 
Heaven  left  you  intact  a  kingliness  of  nature — 
a  loftiness  of  spirit,  unabased  by  assaults  leveled 
not  against  yourself,  but  your  pride ;  your  per- 
sonardignity,  though  singularly  sensitive,  though 
bitterly  galled,  stood  proof  What  might  lower 
lesser  men,  lowered  not  you ;  Heaven  left  you 
that  dignity,  for  it  belongs  alike  to  your  intellect 
and  vour  virtues — but  suffered  it  to  be  a  source 
of  your  anguish.  Why?  Because  not  content 
with  adorning  your  virtues,  it  was  covering  the 
fault  against  which  were  directed  the  sorrows. 
You  frown — forgive  me." 

"  You  do  not  transgress  unless  it  be  as  a  flat- 
terer!  If  I  frowned,  it  was  unconsciously — the 
sign  of  thought,  not  anger.  Pause! — my  mind 
has  left  you  for  a  moment ;  it  is  looking  into 
the  past." 

The  past ! — Was  it  not  true !  That  home  to 
whose  porch  came  in  time  the  Black  Horses,  in 
time  just  to  save  from  the  last,  worst  dishonor, 
but  not  save  from  years  racked  by  each  pang 
that  can  harrow  man's  dignity  in  each  daily 
assault  on  the  fort  of  man's  pride ;  the  sly,  treach- 
erous daughter — her  terrible  marriage — the  man 
whose  disgrace  she  had  linked  to  her  blood,  and 
whose  life  still  was  insult  and  threat  to  his  own. 
True,  what  a  war  upon  Pride !  And  even  in 
that  secret  and  fatal  love  which  had  been  of  all 
his  griefs  the  most  influential  and  enduring,  had 
his  pride  been  less  bitterly  wounded,  and  that 
pride  less  enthroned  in  his  being,  would  his 
grief  have  been  so  relentless,  his  attempts  at  its 
conquest  so  vain?  And  then,  even  now — what 
was  it  said,  "  I  can  bless" — holy  Love  !  What 
was  it  said,  "  but  not  pardon" — stern  Peide  ! 
And  so  on  to  these  last  revolutions  of  sterile 
life.  Was  he  not  miserable  in  Lionel's  and 
Sophy's  misery?  Forlorn  in  that  Citadel  of 
Pride — closed  round  and  invested  with  Sorrows 
— and  the  last  Hopes  that  had  fled  to  the  for- 
tress, slain  in  defense  of  its  outworks.  With 
hand  shading  his  face,  Darrell  remained  some 
minutes  silent.  At  last  he  raised  his  head,  and 
his  eye  was  steadfast,  his  lip  firm. 

"George  Morley,"  said  he,  "I  acknowledge 
much  justice  in  the  censure  you  have  conveyed, 
with  so  artful  a  delicacy,  that  if  it  fail  to  reform 
it  can  not  displease,  and  leaves  much  to  be  seri- 
ously revolved  in  solitary  self-commune.  But 
though  I  may  own  that  pride  is  not  made  for 
man,  and  that  in  the  blindness  of  human  judg- 
ment I  may  often  have  confounded  pride  with 
duty,  and  suffered  for  the  mistake,  yet  that  one 
prevailing  object  of  my  life,  which  with  so  start- 
ling a  truth  you  say  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
frustrate,  I  can  not  hold  an  error  in  itself. 
You  have  learned  enough  fi'om  your  uncle,  seen 
enough  of  me  yourself,  to  know  what  that  ob- 
ject has  been.     You  are  scholar  enough  to  con- 


cede to  me  that  it  is  no  ignoble  homage  which 
either  nations  or  persons  render  to  the  ancestral 
■Dead — that  homage  is  an  instinct  in  all  but 
vulgar  and  sordid  natures.  Has  a  man  no  an- 
cestry of  his  own,  rightly  and  justly,  if  himself 
of  worth,  he  appropriates  to  his  lineage  all  the 
heroes,  and  bards,  and  patriots  of  his  fatherland  ? 
A  free  citizen  has  ancestors  in  all  the  glorious 
chiefs  that  have  adorned  the  state,  on  the  sole 
condition  that  he  shall  revere  their  tombs,  and 
guard  their  memon.-  as  a  son  I  And  thus,  when- 
ever they  who  speak  trumpet-tongued  to  grand 
democracies,  would  rouse  some  quailing  genera- 
tion to  heroic  deed  or  sacrifice,  they  ajjpeal  in 
the  Name  of  Ancestors,  and  call  upon  the  living 
to  be  worthy  of  the  dead!  That  which  is  so 
laudable — nay,  so  necessarj'  a  sentiment  in  the 
mass,  can  not  be  a  fault  that  angers  Heaven  in 
the  man.  Like  all  high  sentiments,  it  may  com- 
pel harsh  and  rugged  duties;  it  may  need  the 
stern  suppression  of  many  a  gentle  impulse — of 
many  a  pleasing  wish.  But  we  must  regard  it 
in  its  merit  and  consistency  as  a  whole.  And 
if,  my  eloquent  and  subtle  friend,  all  yoti  have 
hitherto  said  be  designed  but  to  wind  into 
pleas  for  the  same  cause  that  I  have  already  de- 
cided against  the  advocate  in  my  own  heart 
which  sides  with  Lionel's  generous  love  and  j-oii 
fair  girl's  ingenuous  and  touching  grace,  let  us 
break  up  the  court :  the  judge  has  no  choice  but 
the  law  which  imperiously  governs  his  judg- 
ment." 

George  Morlet.  "I  have  not  hitherto  pre- 
sumed to  apply  to  particular  cases  the  general 
argument  you  so  indulgently  allow  me  to  urge 
in  favor  of  my  theory,  that  in  the  world  of  the 
human  heart,  when  closely  examined,  there  is 
the  same  harmony  of  design  as  in  the  external 
universe ;  that  in  Fault  and  in  Sorrow  are  the 
axioms,  and  problems,  and  postulates  of  a  sci- 
ence. Bear  with  me  a  little  longer  if  I  still 
pursue  the  same  course  of  reasoning.  I  shall 
not  have  the  arrogance  to  argue  a  special  in- 
stance— to  say,  'This  you  should  do,  this  you 
should  not  do.'  All  I  would  ask  is,  leave  to 
proffer  a  few  more  suggestions  to  your  own 
large  and  candid  experience." 

Said  Darrell,  irresistibly  allured  on,  but  with 
a  tinge  of  his  grave  irony,  "  You  have  the  true 
genius  of  the  pulpit,  and  I  concede  to  you  its 
rights.  I  will  listen  with  the  wish  to  profit — 
the  more  susceptible  of  conviction,  because  freed 
from  the  necessity  to  reply." 

George  Morlet.  "  You  vindicate  the  ob- 
ject which  has  been  the  main  ambition  of  your 
life.  You  say  '  not  an  ignoble  object.'  Truly  I 
ignoble  objects  are  not  for  you.  The  questicn 
is,  are  there  not  objects  nobler,  which  should 
have  attained  higher  value,  and  led  to  larger 
results  in  the  soul  which  Providence  assigned 
to  you ;  was  not  the  proper  place  of  the  object 
you  vindicate  that  of  an  auxiliaiw — a  subordin- 
ate, rather  than  that  of  the  all-directing  seif- 
suilicing  leader  and  autocrat  of  such  varioi:s 
powers  of  mind?  I  picture  you  to  myself — a 
lone,  bold-hearted  boy— in  this  ancient  hall, 
amidst  these  primitive  landscapes,  in  which  old 
associations  are  so  little  disturbed  by  the  mod- 
ern— in  which  the  wild  turf  of  waste  lands,  van- 
ishing deep  into  mazes  of  solemn  wood,  lend 
the  scene  to  dreams  of  gone  days — bring  Ad- 
venture and  Knighthood,  and  all  the  poetical 


292 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


colors  of  Eld  to  unite  the  homage  due  to  the 
ancestral  dead  with  the  future  ambition  of 
life; — Image  full  of  interest  and  of  jjathos — a 
friendless  child  of  a  race  more  beloved  for  its 
decay,  looking  dauntless  on  to  poverty  and  toil, 
with  that  conviction  of  power  which  is  born  of 
collected  purpose  and  earnest  wiM  ;  and  record- 
ing his  secret  vow,  that  single-handed  he  will 
undo  the  work  of  destroying  ages,  and  restore 
his  line  to  its  place  of  honor  in  the  land!" 

George  paused,  and  tears  stood  in  Darrell's 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  scholar — "yes,  for  the 
child,  for  the  youth,  for  the  man  in  his  first 
daring  stride  into  the  Action  of  Life,  that  object 
commands  our  respectful  sympathies.  But  wait 
a  few  years.  Has  that  object  expanded  ?  Has 
it  led  on  into  objects  embracing  humanity? 
Remains  it  alone  and  sterile  in  tlie  bosom  of 
successful  genius?  Or  is  it  prolific  and  fruit- 
ful of  grander  designs — of  more  wide-spread- 
ing uses  ?  Make  genius  successful,  and  all 
men  have  the  right  to  say,  '  Brother,  help  us !' 
What !  no  other  object  still  but  to  build  up  a 
house ! — to  i-ecover  a  line !  What  was  grand  at 
one  stage  of  an  onward  career  is  narrow  and 
small  at  another!  Ambition  limited  to  the  rise 
of  a  family !  Can  our  symjjathies  still  hallow 
tliat !  No !  In  Guy  Uarrell  successful — that 
ambition  was  treason  to  earth!  IMankind  was 
his  family  now !  Therefore  Heaven  thwarted 
the  object  which  opposed  its  own  ends  in  creating 
you!  Therefore  childless  you  stand  on  your 
desolate  hearth! — Therefore,  lo!  side  by  side 
— von  uncompleted  pile — ^your  own  uncompleted 
life !" 

Darrell  sate  dumb. — He  was  appalled ! 

George  IMorley.  "Has  not  that  object  stint- 
ed your  very  intellect?  Has  it  not,  while  baf- 
fled in  its  own  centred  aim — has  it  not  robbed 
you  of  the  glory  which  youth  craved,  and  which 
manhood  might  have  Vvon ?  Idolater  to  the  creed 
of  an  Ancestor's  Name,  has  your  own  name  that 
hold  on  the  grateful  respect  of  the  Future  which 
men  ever  give  to  that  genius  whose  objects  are 
knit  with  mankind?  Suddenly,  in  the  zenith 
of  life,  amidst  cheers,  not  of  genuine  renown — 
cheers  loud  and  brief  as  a  mob's  hurrah — calam- 
ities, all  of  which  I  know  not  nor  conjecture,  in- 
terrupt your  career ;  and  when  your  own  life- 
long object  is  arrested,  or  rather  when  it  is 
snatched  from  your  eye,  your  genius  renounces 
all  uses.  Fame,  ever-duriug,  was  before  you 
still,  had  your  objects  been  those  for  which 
genius  is  given.  You  muse.  Heaven  permits 
these  rude  words  to  strike  home !  Guy  Darrell, 
it  is  not  too  late !  Heaven's  warnings  are  al- 
ways in  time !  Reflect,  with  the  one  narrow 
object  was  fostered  and  fed  the  one  master  fail- 
ing of  Bride.  To  us,  as  Christians  or  as  rea- 
soiiers,  it  is  not  in  this  world  that  every  duty  is 
to  find  its  special  meed  ;  yet  by  that  same  mys- 
tical LAW  which  makes  Science  of  Sorrow,  re- 
wards are  but  often  the  normal  eflfect  of  duties 
sublimely  fulfilled.  Out  of  your  pride  and  your 
one-cherished  object  has  there  grown  hajipi- 
ness  ?  Has  the  success  which  was  not  denied 
you  achieved  the  link  with  ])Osterrty  that  your 
hand,  if  not  fettered,  would  long  since  have 
forged  ?  Grant  that  Heaven  says,  '  Stubborn 
child,  yield  at  last  to  the  warnings  that  came 
from  my  love !     From  a  son  so  favored  and 


strong  I  exact  the  most  difficult  offering  !  Thou 
hast  sacrificed  much,  but  for  ends  not  prescribed 
in  my  law ;  sacrifice  now  to  me  the  thing  thou 
most  clingest  to  —  Bride.  I  make  the  pang  I 
demand  purjiosely  bitter.  I  twine  round  the 
ottering  I  ask  tlie  fibres  that  bleed  in  relaxing. 
What  to  other  men  would  be  no  duty  is  duty  to 
thee,  because  it  entails  a  triumphant  self-con- 
quest, and  pays  to  Humanity  the  arrears  of  just 
dues  long  neglected.'  Grant  the  hard  sacrifice 
made ;  I  must  think  Heaven  has  ends  for  your 
joy  even  here,  when  it  asks  you  to  part  with  the 
cause  of  your  sorrows ;  I  must  think  that  your 
evening  of  life  may  have  sunshine  denied  to  its 
noon.  But  with  God  are  no  bargains.  A  vir- 
tue, the  more  arduous  because  it  must  trample 
down  what  your  life  has  exalted  as  virtue,  is 
before  you — distasteful,  austere,  repellant.  The 
most  inviting  arguments  in  its  favor  are  that  it 
proffers  no  bribes ;  men  would  acquit  you  in  re- 
jecting it ;  judged  by  our  world's  ordinary  rule, 
men  would  be  right  in  acquitting  you.  ]3ut  if, 
on  reflection,  you  say  in  your  heart  of  hearts, 
'  This  is  a  virtue,'  you  will  follow  its  noiseless 
path  up  to  the  smile  of  God!" 

The  Breacher  ceased. 

Darrell  breathed  a  long  sigh,  rose  slowly,  took 
George's  hand,  pressed  it  warmly  in  both  his 
own,  and  turned  quickly  and  silently  away.  He 
paused  in  the  deep  recess,  where  the  gleam  of 
the  wintry  sun  shot  through  the  small  casement, 
aslant  and  pale,  on  the  massive  wall.  Ojjening 
the  lattice,  he  looked  forth  on  the  old  hereditary 
trees — on  the  Gothic  church-tower — on  the  dark 
evergreens  that  belted  his  father's  tomb.  Again 
he  sighed,  but  this  time  the  sigh  had  a  haughty 
sound  in  its  abrupt  impatience  ;  and  George  felt 
that  words  written  must  remain  to  strengthen 
and  confirm  the  effect  of  words  spoken.  He 
had  at  least  obeyed  his  uncle's  wise  injunction 
— he  had  prepared  Darrell's  mind  to  weigh  the 
contents  of  a  letter,  which,  given  in  the  first  in- 
stance, would  perhaps  have  rendered  Darrell's 
resolution  not  less  stubborn,  by  increasing  the 
pain  to  himself  which  the  resolution  already  in- 
flicted. 

Darrell  turned,  and  looked  toward  George, 
as  if  in  surprise  to  see  him  still  lingering  there. 

"  I  have  now  but  to  place  before  you  this  let- 
ter from  my  uncle  to  myself;  it  enters  into  those 
details  which  it  would  have  misbecome  me  spe- 
cially to  discuss.  Remember,  I  entreat  you,  in 
reading  it,  that  it  is  written  by  your  oldest  friend 
— by  a  man  who  has  no  dull  discrimination  in 
the  perplexities  of  life,  or  the  niceties  of  hon- 
or." 

Darrell  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and  took 
the  letter.  George  was  about  to  leave  the 
room. 

"Stay,"  said  Darrell,  "'tis  best  to  have  but 
one  interview — one  conversation  on  the  subject 
which  has  been  just  enforced  on  me ;  and  the 
letter  may  need  a  comment,  or  a  message  to 
your  uncle."  He  stood  hesitating,  with  the  let- 
ter open  in  his  hand ;  and,  fixing  his  keen  eye 
on  George's  pale  and  powerful  countenance, 
said,  "  How  is  it  that,  with  an  experience  of 
mankind,  which  you  will  pardon  me  for  assum- 
ing to  be  limited,  you  yet  rend  so  wondrously 
the  complicated  human  heart?" 

"If  I  really  have  tiiat  gift."  said  George,  "I 
will   answer  your   question   by   another:    Is   it 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  I 


293 


through  experience  that  we  learn  to  read  the 
human  heart — or  is  it  through  sympathy?  If  it 
he  experience,  what  becomes  of  the  Poet?  If 
the  Poet  be  born,  not  made,  is  it  not  because  he 
is  born  to  sympathize  with  what  he  has  never 
experienced?" 

"I  see!  There  are  bom  Preachers  I" 
Darrell  reseated  himself,  and  began  Alban's 
letter.  He  was  evidently  moved  by  the  Colo- 
nel's account  of  Lionel's  grief — muttering  to 
himself,  '-Poor  boy  I — but  he  is  brave — he  is 
young."  When  he  came  to  Alban's  forebod- 
ings, on  the  eftects  of  dejection  upon  the  stam- 
ina of  life,  he  pressed  his  hand  quickly  against 
his  breast  as  if  he  had  received  a  shock  I  He 
mused  a  while  before  he  resumed  his  task :  then 
he  read  rapidly  and  silently  till  his  face  flushed, 
and  he  repeated  in  a  hollow  tone,  inexpressibly 
mournful,  '"'Let  the  young  man  live,  and  the 
old  name  die  with  Guy  Darrell.'  Ay.  ay !  see 
how  the  world  sides  with  Youth !  What  mat- 
ters all  else  so  that  Youth  have  its  toy  I"  Again 
his  eye  hurried  on  impatiently  till  he  came  to 
the  passage  devoted  to  Lady  Montfort;  then 
George  saw  that  the  paper  trembled  violently  in 
his  hand,  and  that  his  very  lips  grew  white. 
"'Serious  apprehensions,'"  he  muttered.  '"I 
owe  'consideration  to  such  a  friend.'  This 
man  is  without  a  heart  I" 

He  clenched  the  paper  in  his  hand  without 
reading  farther.  "Leave  me  this  letter, 
George ;  I  will  give  an  answer  to  that  and  to 
you  before  night."  He  caught  up  his  hat  as  he 
spoke,  passed  into  the  lifeless  picture-gallery, 
and  so  out  into  the  open  air.  George,  dubious 
and  anxious,  gained  the  solitude  of  bis  own 
room,  and  locked  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


CHAPTER  IIL 


At  last,  the  great  Qnestion  br  Torture  is  fairly  applied 
to  Guy  Darrell. 

What  m-ill  he  do  -vriTH  it?  What  will 
Guy  Darrell  do  with  the  thought  that  weighs  on 
his  brain,  rankles  in  his  heart,  perplexes  his  du- 
bious conscience?  "\^^lat  will  he  do  with  the 
Law  which  has  governed  his  past  life  ?  What 
will  he  do  with  that  shadow  of  a  Xajie,  which, 
alike  in  swarming  crowds  or  in  lonely  burial- 
places,  has  spelled  his  eye  and  lured  his  step  as 
a  beckoning  ghost  ?  What  will  he  do  with  the 
Pride  from  which  the  mask  has  been  so  mdely 
torn?  What  will  he  do  with  idols  s'o  long  re- 
vered ?  Are  they  idols,  or  are  they  but  symbols 
and  images  of  holy  truths  ?  What  will  he  do 
with  the  torturing  problem,  on  the  solution  of 
which  depend  the  honor  due  to  consecrated 
ashes,  and  the  rights  due  to  beating  hearts  ? 
There,  restless  he  goes,  the  arrow  of  that  ques- 
tion in  his  side — now  through  the  broad  waste 
lands — now  through  the  dim  woods,  pausing  oft 
with  short  quick  sigh,  with  hand  swept  across 
his  brow  as  if  to  clear  away  a  cloud ; — now 
snatched  from  our  sight  by  the  evergreens  round 
the  tomb  in  that  still  church-yard — now  emerg- 
ing slow,  with  melancholy  eyes  fixed  on  the  old 
roof-tree  I  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  The 
Question  of  Questions  in  which  all  Futurity  is 
opened,  has  him  on  its  rack.  What  ■vtill  he 
DO  WITH  IT  ?    Let  us  see. 


Immnnis  aram,  fi  tetigit  maaas, 

Non  suniptuosa  blandior  hostia, 
JlolUvit  aversas  Penates, 
Farre  pio  et  saliente  mica Hobat. 

It  is  the  gray  of  the  evening.  Fairthom  is 
sauntering  somewhat  sullenly  along  the  banks 
of  the  lake.  He  has  missed,  the  last  three  dars, 
his  walk  with  Sophy — missed  the  pleasing  ex- 
citement of  talking  at  her,  and  of  the  familv  in 
whose  obsolete  glories  he  considers  her  verj- 
interest  an  obtrusive  impertinence.  He  has 
missed,  too,  his  more  habitual  and  less  irritat- 
ing conversation  with  Darrell.  In  short,  alto- 
gether he  is  put  out.  and  he  vents  his  spleen  on 
the  swans,  who  foHow  him  along  the  wave  as 
he  walks  along  the  margin,  iniiraatino-  either 
their  aflection  for  himself,  or  their  anticipation 
of  the  bread  crumbs  associated  with  his  image 
— by  the  amiable  note,  half  snort  and  half 
grunt,  to  which  change  of  time  or  climate  has 
reduced  the  vocal  accomplishments  of  those 
classical  birds,  so  pathetically  melodious  in  the 
age  of  Moschus  and  on  the  banks  of  Cayster. 

"Xot  a  crumb,  you  nnprincipled  beggars," 
growled  the  musician.  "You  imagine  that 
mankind  are  to  have  no  other  thought  but  that 
of  supplying  you  with  luxuries!  And  if  yon 
were  asked,  in  a  competitive  examination,  to 
define  me,  your  benefactor,  you  would  say — 'A 
thing  very  low  in  the  scale  of  creation,  without 
wings  or  even  feathers,  but  which  Proridence 
endowed  with  a  peculiar  instinct  for  aflbrding 
nutritious  and  palatable  additions  to  the  ordi- 
nary aliment  of  Swans  I'  Ay,  you  may  grunt ; 
I  wish  I  had  you — in  a  pie  I" 

Slowly,  out  through  the  gap  between  yon  gray 
crag  and  the  thorn-tree,  paces  the  doe,  halting 
to  drink  just  where  the  faint  star  of  eve  shoots 
its  gleam  along  the  wave.  The  musician  for- 
gets the  swans  and  quickens  his  pace,  expecting 
to  meet  the  doe's  wonted  companion.  He  is 
not  disappointed.  He  comes  on  Guy  Darrell 
where  the  twilight  shadow  falls  darkest  between 
the  gray  crag  and  the  thorn-tree. 

"Dear  Fellow  Hermit,"  said  Darrell,  almost 
gayly,  yet  with  more  than  usual  affection  in  his 
greeting  and  voice,  "yon  find  me  just  when  I 
want  you.  I  am  as  one  whose  eyes  have  been 
strained  by  a  riolent  conflict  of  colors,  and  your 
quiet  presence  is  like  the  relief  of  a  return  to 
green.  I  have  news  for  you,  Fairthorn.  You, 
who  know  more  of  my  secrets  than  any  other 
man,  shall  be  the  first  to  learn  a  decision  that 
must  bind  you  and  me  more  together — but  not 
in  these  scenes,  Dick. 

'  Ibimus — ibimns! 
-Supremum 


Carpere  iter,  comites,  parati ."  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sir?"  asked  Fairthom. 
"  !My  mind  always  misgives  me  when  I  hear 
you  quoting  Horace.  Some  reflection  about  the 
certainty  of  death,  or  other  disagreeable  sub- 
jects is  sure  to  follow!" 

"Death!  No.  Dick — not  now.  Marriage- 
bells  and  jov,  Dick!  We  shall  have  a  wed- 
ding !" 

"  What !  Yoit  will  marry  at  last !  And  it 
must  be  that  beautiful  Caroline  Lyndsay !  It 
must — it  must!  You  can  never  love  another! 
You  know  it,  my  dear,  dear  master!  I  shall 
see  you,  then,  happy  before  I  die." 


294 


WHAT  '«*ILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


"Tut,  foolish  old  friend  1"  said  Darrell,  lean- 
ing; his  arm  tenderly  on  Fairthorn's  shoulder, 
and  walking  on  slowly  toward  the  house.  '•  How 
often  must  I  tell  you  that  no  maiTiage-bells  can 
ring  for  me  I" 

"But  you  have  told  me,  too,  that  you  went 
to  Twickenham  to  steal  a  sight  of  her  again ; 
and  that  it  was  the  sight  of  her  that  made  you 
resolve  to  wed  no  one  else.  And  when  I  have 
railed  against  her  for  fickleness,  have  not  you 
nearly  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits,  as  if  no 
one  might  rail  against  her  but  youi-self  ?  And 
now  she  is  free — and  did  you  not  grant  that  she 
would  not  refuse  your  hand,  and  would  be  true 
and  faithful  henceforth  ?  And  yet  you  insist 
on  being — granite  1" 

"  No,  Dick,  not  granite ;  I  wish  I  were  I" 

"  Granite  and  pride,"  persisted  Dick,  coura- 
geously. "  If  one  chips  a  bit  off  the  one,  one 
only  breaks  one's  spade  against  the  other." 

"  Pride  I — you  too  I"  muttered  Darrell,  mourn- 
fully; then  aloud,  ''Xo,  it  is  not  pride  now, 
whatever  it  mi^^ht  have  been  even  yesterday. 
But  I  would  rather  be  racked  by  all  the  tortures 
that  pious  inquisitors  ever  invented  out  of  com- 
passion for  obstinate  heretics,  than  condemn  the 
woman  I  have  so  fatally  loved  to  a  penance  the 
misery  of  which  she  can  not  foresee.  She  would 
accept  me  ? — certainly  1  Why  ?  Because  she 
thinks  she  owes  me  reparation — because  she 
pities  me.  And  my  heart  tells  me  that  I  might 
become  cruel,  and  mean,  and  vindictive,  if  I 
were  to  live  day  b\'  day  with  one  who  created  in 
me,  while  my  life  was  at  noon,  a  love  never 
known  in  its  morn,  and  to  feel  that  that  love's 
sole  return  was  the  pity  vouchsafed  to  the  night- 
fall of  my  age.  2S'o ;  if  she  pitied,  but  did  not 
love  me,  when,  eighteen  years  ago,  we  parted 
under  yonder  beech-tree,  I  should  be  a  dotard 
to  dream  that  woman's  pity  mellows  into  love  as 
our  locks  become  gray,  and  Youth  turns  our 
TOWS  into  ridicule.  It  is  not  pride  that  speaks 
here  ;  it  is  rather  humility,  Dick  I  But  we  must 
not  now  talk  of  old  age  and  by-gones.  Youth 
and  marriage-bells,  Dick !  Know  that  I  have 
been  for  hours  pondering  how  to  reconcile  with 
my  old-fashioned  notions  dear  Lionel's  happi- 
ness. We  must  think  of  the  li\"ing  as  well  as 
the  dead,  Dick.  I  have  solved  the  problem.  I 
am  happy,  and  so  shall  the  young  folks  be." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  will  con- 
sent to — " 

"  Yes,  to  Lionel's  marriage  with  that  beauti- 
ful girl,  whose  parentage  we  never  will  ask. 
Great  men  are  their  own  ancestors ;  why  not 
sometimes  fair  women  ?  Enough — I  consent  I 
I  shall  of  course  secure  to  my  kinsman  and  his 
bride  an  ample  fortune.  Lionel  will  have  time 
for  his  honeymoon  before  he  departs  for  the 
wars.  He  will  fight  with  good  heart  now,  Dick. 
Young  folks  of  the  present  day  can  not  bear  up 
against  sorrow  as  they  were  trained  to  do  in 
mine.  And  that  amiable  lady  who  has  so  much 
pity  for  me,  has,  of  course,  still  more  pity  for  a 
cliarming  young  couple  for  whose  marriage  she 
schemed,  in  order  to  give  me  a  liome,  Dick. 
And  rather  than  she  should  pine  and  fall  ill, 
and — no  matter ;  all  shall  be  settled  as  it  should 
be  for  the  happiness  of  the  living.    But  some- 


1  thing  else  must  be  settled ;  we  must  think  of 
the  dead  as  well  as  the  living;  and  this  name 

i  of  Darrell  shall  be  buried  with  me  in  the  grave 

j  beside  my  father's.     Lionel  Haughton  will  keep 

i  to  his  own  name.  Live  the  HaughtonsI  Per- 
ish, but  with  no  blot  on  their  shield — perish  the 

JDarrells:  Why,  what  is  that?  Tears,  Dick? 
Pooh ! — be  a  man  1  And  I  want  all  your 
strength  ;  for  you,  too,  must  have  a  share  in  the 
sacrifice.  What  follows  is  not  the  dictate  of 
pride,  if  I  ca?i  read  myself  aright.     No;  it  is  the 

'.  final  completion  and  surrender  of  the  object  on 
which  so  much  of  my  life  has  been  wasted — but 

,  a  surrender  that  satisfies  my  crotchets  of  honor. 
At  all  events,  if  it  be  pride  in  disguise,  it  will 

!  demand  no  victim  in  others ;  you  and  I  may 
have  a  sharp  pang — we  must  bear  it,  Dit!k." 

I      "  What  on  eai'th  is  coming  now  ?"  said  Dick, 

,  dolefully. 

"The  due  to  the  dead,  Richard  Fairthorn. 

I  This  nook  of  fair  England,  in  which  I  learned 
from  the  dead  to  love  honor — this  poor  domain 

I  of  Fawley — shall  go  in  bequest  to  the  College 
at  which  I  was  reared." 
"Sir!" 

"  It  will  serve  for  a  fellowship  or  two  to  hon- 
est, brave-hearted  young  scholars.  It  will  be 
thus,  while  English  institutions  may  last,  de- 
voted to  Learning  and  Honor.  It  may  sustain 
for  mankind  some  ambition  more  generous  than 
mine,  it  appears,  ever  was — settled  thus,  not  in 
mine,  but  my  dear  father's  name,  like  the  Dar- 
rell Mtiseum.  These  are  my  dues  to  the  dead, 
Dick  I  And  the  old  house  thus  becomes  use- 
less. The  new  house  was  ever  a  folly.  They 
must  go  down  both,  as  soon  as  the  young  foll^ 
are  married  ;  not  a  stone  stand  on  stone  I  The 
plowshare  shall  pass  over  their  sites!  And 
this  task  I  order  you  to  see  done.  I  have  not 
strength.  You  will  then  hasten  to  join  me  at 
Sorrento,  that  corner  of  earth  on  which  Horace 
Mished  to  breathe  his  last  sigh. 

'lUe  te  mecam  locus  et  beatae 
Postulant  arces — ibi — tu — '" 

"  Don't,  Sir,  don't.  Horace  again !  It  is  too 
,  much."  Fairthorn  was  choking ;  but  as  if  the 
'  idea  presented  to  him  was  really  too  monstrous 
I  for  belief,  he  clutched  at  DaiTell  with  so  uncer- 
I  tain  and  vehement  a  hand  that  he  almost  caught 
him  by  the  throat,  and  sobbed  out,  "  You  must 
be  joking." 

"  Seriousl}-  and  solemnly,  Richard  Fairthorn," 

I  said  Dartell,  gently  disentangling  the  fingers 

i  that  threatened  him  with  strangulation.     "  Se- 

{ riously  and  solemnly  I  have  uttered  to  yoa  my 

deliberate  purpose.     I  implore  you,  in  the  name 

of  our  lifelong  friendship,  to  face  this  pain  as  I 

do — resolutely,  cheerfully.      I  implore  you  to 

execute  to  the  letter  the  instructions  I  shall 

leave  with  you  on  quitting  England,  which  I 

shall  do  the  day  Lionel  is  married;  and  then, 

dear  old  friend,  calm  days,  clear  consciences. 

In  climes  where  whole  races  have  passed  away 

— proud  cities  themselves  sunk  in  graves — where 

our  petty  grief  for  a  squirearch's  lost  house  we 

shall  both  grow  ashamed  to  indulge — there  we 

will  moralize,  rail  against  vain  dreams  and  idle 

I  pride,  cultivate  vines  and   orange-trees,  with 

1  Horace — nay,  nay,  Dick — viiih.  the  Flcxe  I" 


WHAT  "STILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


295 


CHAPTER  V. 

More  bounteous  run  rivers  when  the  ice  that  locked  their  ) 
flow  melts  into  their  water?.  And  when  fine  natures  I 
relent,  their  kindness  is  swelled  by  the  thaw. 

Dakrell  escaped  into  the  house ;  Fairthom 
sunk  upon  the  ground,  and  resigned  himself  for 
some  minutes  to  unmanly  lamentations.  Sud- 
denly he  started  up;  a  thought  came  into  his 
brain — a  hope  into  his  breast.  He  made  a  ca- 
per— launched  himself  into  a  precipitate  zigzag 
—gained  the  hall-door — plunged  into  his  o^vn 
mysterious  hiding-place — and  in  less  than  an 
hour  re-emerged,  a  letter  in  his  hand,  with  which 
he  had  just  time  to  catch  the  postman,  as  that 
functionary  was  striding  off  from  the  back-yard 
with  the  official  bag. 

This  exploit  performed,  Fairthom  shambled 
into  his  chair  at  the  dinner-table,  as  George 
Morley  concluded  the  grace  which  preceded  the 
meal  that,  in  Fairthorn's  estimation,  usually 
made  the  grand  event  of  the  passing  day.  But 
the  poor  man's  appetite  was  gone.  As  Sophy 
dined  with  Waife,  the  Morleys  alone  shared, 
with  host  and  secretary,  the  melancholy  enter- 
tainment. George  was  no  less  silent  than  Fair- 
thorn  ;  Darrell's  manner  perplexed  him.  ]Mrs. 
ilorley,  not  admitted  into  her  husband's  confi- 
dence in  secrets  that  concerned  others,  though 
in  all  his  own  he  was  to  her  conjugal  sight  pel- 
htcidhr  vitro,  was  the  chief  talker;  and,  being 
the  best  woman  in  the  world,  ever  wishing  to 
say  something  pleasant,  she  fell  to  praising  the 
dear  old  family  pictures  that  scowled  at  her 
from  the  wall,  and  informed  Fairthorn  that  she 
had  made  great  progress  with  her  sketch  of  the 
old  house  as  seen  from  the  lake,  and  was  in 
doubt  whether  she  should  introduce  in  the  fore- 
ground some  figures  of  the  olden  time,  as  in 
Nash's  Views  of  Baronial  Mansions.  But  not 
a  word  could  she  coax  out  of  Fairthorn;  and 
when  she  turned  to  appeal  to  Darrell,  the  host 
suddenly  addressed  to  George  a  question  as  to 
the  texts  and  authorities  by  which  the  Papal 
Church  defends  its  doctrine  of  Purgatory.  That 
entailed  a  long,  and  no  doubt  erudite,  reply, 
which  lasted  not  only  through  the  rest  of  the 
dinner,  but  till  ISIrs.  Morley,  edified  by  the  dis- 
course, and  delighted  to  notice  the  undeviating 
attention  which  Darrell  paid  to  her  distinguish- 
ed spouse,  took  advantage  of  the  first  full  stop, 
and  retired.  Fairthom  finished  his  bottle  of 
port,  and,  far  from  convinced  that  there  was  no 
Purgato'iy,  but  inclined  to  advance  the  novel 
heresy  that  Purgatory  sometimes  commenced 
on  this  side  the  grave — slinked  away,  and  was 
seen  no  more  that  night ;  neither  was  his  flute 
heard. 

Then  Darrell  rose,  and  said,  "I  shall  go  up 
stairs  to  our  sick  friend  for  a  few  minutes  ;  may 
I  find  you  here  when  1  come  back?  Your  visit 
to  him  can  follow  mine." 

On  entering  Waife's  room,  Darrell  went 
straight  forward  toward  Sophy,  and  cut  off  her 
retreat. 

"Fair  guest,"  said  he,  with  a  grace  and  ten- 
derness of  manner  which,  when  he  pleased  it, 
could  be  ineffably  bewitching — ''  teach  me  some 
art  by  which  in  future  rather  to  detain  than  to 
scare  away  the  presence  in  which  a  duller  age 
than  mine  could  still  recognize  the  charms  that 
subdue  the  young."  He  led  her  back  gently  to 
the  seat  she  had  deserted — placed  himself  next 


to  her — addressed  a  few  cordial  queries  to  "Waife 
about  his  health  and  comforts — and  then  said, 
"You  must  not  leave  me  for  some  days  yet.  I 
have  written  by  this  post  to  my  kinsman,  Lionel 
Haughton.  I  have  refused  to  be  his  embassa- 
dor at  a  court  in  which,  by  all  the  laws  of  na- 
tions, he  is  bound  to  submit  himself  to  his  con- 
queror. I  can  not  even  hope  that  he  may  escape 
with  his  freedom.  No  I  chains  for  life  !  Thrice 
happy,  indeed,  if  that  be  the  merciful  sentence 
you  inflict." 

He  raised  Sophy's  hand  to  his  lips  as  he  end- 
ed, and  before  she  could  even  quite  comprehend 
the  meaning  of  his  words — so  was  she  startled, 
confused,  incredulous  of  such  sudden  change  in 
fate — the  door  had  closed  on  Darrell,  and  Waife 
had  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  murmuring,  "Is 
not  Providence  kind?" 

Darrell  rejoined  the  scholar.  "  George,"  said 
he,  "be  kind  enough  to  tell  Alban  that  you 
showed  me  his  letter.  Be  kind  enough  also  to 
write  to  Lady  Montfort.  and  say  that  I  grate- 
fully acknowledge  her  wish  to  repair  to  me  those 
losses  which  have  left  me  to  face  age  and  the 
grave  alone.  Tell  her  that  her  old  friend  (yoa 
remember,  George,  I  knew  her  as  a  child)  sees 
in  that  wish  the  same  sweet  goodness  of  heart 
which  soothed  him  when  his  son  died  and  his 
daughter  fled.  Add  that  her  wish  is  gratified. 
To  that  maiTiage,  in  which  she  compassionately 
foresaw  the  best  solace  left  to  my  bereaved  and 
bafiled  existence — to  that  marriage  I  give  my 
consent." 

"  You  do  I  Oh,  Mr.  Darrell,  how  I  honor 
you  1" 

"Nay,  I  no  more  deserve  honor  for  consent- 
ing than  I  should  have  deserved  contempt  if  I 
had  continued  to  refuse.  To  do  what  I  deem- 
ed right  is  not  more  my  wish  now  than  it  was 
twelve  hours  ago.  To  what  so  sudden  a  change 
of  resolve  in  one  who  changes  resolves  very  rare- 
ly, may  be  due,  whether  to  Lady  Montfort,  to 
Alban,  or  to  that  metaphysical  skill  with  which 
you  wound  into  my  reason,  and  compelled  me 
to  review  all  its  judgments,  I  do  not  attempt  to 
determine ;  yet  I  thought  I  had  no  option  but 
the  course  I  had  tclken.  No ;  it  is  fair  to  your- 
self to  give  you  the  chief  credit ;  you  made  me 
desire,  you  made  me  resolve,  to  find  an  option 
— I  have  found  one.  And  now  pay  your  visit 
where  mine  has  been  just  paid.  It  will  be  three 
days,  I  suppose,  before  Lionel,  having  joined 
his  new  regiment  at  *  *  *  *,  can  be  here.  And 
then  it  will  be  weeks  yet,  I  believe,  before  his 
regiment  sails  ; — a^d  I'm  all  for  short  court- 
ships." 


CHAPTER  YL 


Fairthom  frightens  Sophv.     Sir,Isaac  is  invited  by  Dar- 
rell, and  forms  one  of  a  Family  Circle. 

SrcH  a  sweet  voice  in  sinking  breaks  out  from 
yon  leafless  beeches  I  Waife  hears  it  at  noon 
ifrom  his  window.  Hark !  Sophy  has  found  song 
once  more. 

She  is  seated  on  a  garden  bench,  looking 
across  the  lake  toward  the  gloomy  old  !Manor 
House  and  the  tall  spectre-palace  beside  it.  3Irs. 
Morley  is  also  on  the  bench,  hard  at  work  on 
her  sketch  ;  Fairthom  prowls  through  the  thick- 
ets behind,  wandering  restless   and  wretched, 


296 


■WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


and  wrathful  beyond  all  words  to  describe.  He 
hears  that  voice  singing;  he  stops  short,  per- 
fectly rabid  with  indignation.  "Singing,"  he 
muttered,  "  singing  in  triumph,  and  glowering 
at  the  very  House  she  dooms  to  destruction. 
Worse  than  Xero  striking  his  lyre  amidst  the 
conflagi-ation  of  Rome !" 

By-and-by  Sophy,  who  somehow  or  other  can 
not  sit  long  in  any  place,  and  tires  that  day  of 
any  companion,  wanders  away  from  the  lake, 
and  comes  right  upon  Fairthorn.  Hailing,  in 
her  unutterable  secret  bliss,  the  musician  who 
had  so  often  joined  her  rambles  in  the  days  of 
unuttered  secret  sadness,  she  sprang  toward 
hira  with  welcome  and  mirth  in  a  face  that 
would  have  lured  Diogenes  out  of  his  tub. 
Fairthorn  recoiled  sidelong,  growling  forth, 
"  Don't — you  had  better  not  I" — grinned  the 
most  savage  grin,  showing  all  his  teeth  like  a 
wolf;  and  as  she  stood,  mute  with  wonder,  per- 
haps with  fright,  he  slunk  edgewise  off,  as  if 
aware  of  his  own  murderous  inclinations,  turn- 
ing his  head  more  than  once,  and  shaking  it  at 
her;  then,  with  the  wonted  mystery  which  en- 
veloped his  exits,  he  was  gone  I — vanished  be- 
hind a  crag,  or  amidst  a  bush,  or  into  a  hole — 
Heaven  knows ;  but  like  the  lady  in  the  Siege 
of  Corinth,  who  warned  the  renegade  Alp  of 
his  approaching  end,  he  was  "  gone." 

Twice  again  that  day  Sophy  encountered  the 
enraged  musician ;  each  time  the  same  mena- 
cing aspect  and  weird  disappearance. 

"  Is  Jlr.  Fairthorn  ever  a  little — odd  ?"  asked 
Sophy,  timidly,  of  George  ilorley. 

•'  Always,"  answered  George,  dryly. 

Sophy  felt  relieved  at  that  reply.  Whatever 
is  habitual  in  a  man's  manner,  however  un- 
pleasant, is  seldom  formidable.  Still  Sophy 
could  not  help  saying, 

*'  I  wish  poor  Sir  Isaac  were  here  I" 

"Do  you?"  said  a  soft  voice  behind  her; 
"  and,  pray,  who  is  Sir  Isaac  ?" 

The  Speaker  was  Darrell,  who  had  come  forth 
with  the  resolute  intent  to  see  more  of  Sophy, 
and  make  himself  as  amiably  social  as  he  could. 
Guy  Darrell  could  never  be  kind  by  halves. 

"  Sir  Isaac  is  the  wonderful  dog  you  have 
heard  me  describe,"  replied  George. 

"  Would  he  hurt  my  doe  if  he  came  here?" 
asked  Darrell. 

"  Oh  no,"  cried  Sophy ;  "  he  never  hurts  any 
thing.  He  once  found  a  wounded  hare,  and  he 
brought  it  in  his  mouth  to  us  so  tenderly,  and 
seemed  so  anxious  that  we  should  cure  it,  which 
grandfather  did,  and  the  hare  would  sometimes 
hurt  him,  but  he  never  hurt  the  hare." 

Said  George,  sonorously, 

"  Ingeniias  didicisse  fideliter  artes 
KmoUit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros." 

DaiTcU  drew  Sophy's  arm  into  his  own. 
"Will  you  walk  back  to  the  lake  with  me," 
said  he,  "and  help  me  to  feed  the  swans? 
George,  send  your  servant  express  for  Sir  Isaac. 
I  am  impatient  to  make  his  acquaintance." 

Sophy's  hand  involuntarily  pressed  Darrell's 
arm.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  inno- 
cent, joyous  gratitude ;  feeling  at  once,  and  as 
by  magic,  that  her  awe  of  him  was  gone. 

Darrell  and  Sophy  rambled  thus  together  for 
more  than  an  hour.  He  sought  to  draw  out  her 
mind,  unaware  to  herself;  he  succeeded.  He 
was   struck  with    a  certain  simple  poctiy  of 


thought  which  pen^aded  her  ideas — not  artifi- 
cial sentimentality,  but  a  natural  tendency  to 
detect  in  all  life  a  something  of  delicate  or 
beautiful  which  lies  hid  from  the  ordinary 
sense.  He  found,  thanks  to  Lady  Montfort, 
that,  though  far  from  learned,  she  was  more  ac- 
quainted with  literature  than  he  had  supposed. 
And  sometimes  he  changed  color,  or  breathed 
his  short,  quick  sigh  when  he  recognized  her 
familiarity  with  passages  in  his  favorite  authors 
which  he  himself  had  commended,  or  read  aloud, 
to  the  Caroline  of  old. 

The  next  day  Waife,  who  seemed  now  recov- 
ered as  by  enchantment,  walked  forth  with 
George,  Darrell  again  ^Wth  Sophy.  Sir  Isaac 
arrived — immense  joy ;  the  doe  butts  Sir  Isaac, 
who,  retreating,  stands  on  his  hind  legs^  and, 
having  possessed  himself  of  Waife 's  crutch,  pre- 
sents fire ;  the  doe  in  her  turn  retreats ;  half 
an  hour  afterward  doe  and  dog  are  friends. 

Waife  is  induced,  without  much  persuasion, 
to  join  the  rest  of  the  party  at  dinner.  In  the 
evening  all  (Fairthorn  excepted)  draw  round 
the  fire.  Waife  is  entreated  by  George  to  read 
a  scene  or  two  out  of  Shakspeare.  He  selects 
the  latter  portion  of  "  King  Lear."  Darrell, 
who  never  was  a  play-goer,  and  who,  to  his 
shame  be  it  said,  had  looked  verj-  little  into 
Shakspeare  since  he  left  college,  was  wonder- 
struck.  He  himself  read  beautifully — all  great 
orators,  I  suppose,  do ;  but  his  talent  was  not 
mimetic — not  imitative ;  he  could  never  have 
been  an  actor — never  thrown  himself  into  ex- 
istences wholly  alien  or  repugnant  to  his  own. 
Grave  or  gay,  stern  or  kind,  Guy  Darrell,  though 
often  varying,  was  always  Guy  Darrell. 

But  when  Waife  was  once  in  that  magical 
world  of  art,  Waife  was  gone — nothing  left  of 
him ;  the  part  lived  as  if  there  were  no  actor  to 
it ;  it  icas  tlie  Fool — it  avas  Lear. 

For  the  first  time  Darrell  felt  what  a  grand 
creature  a  grand  actor  really  is — what  a  lumin- 
ous, unconscious  critic  bringing  out  beauties  of 
which  no  commentator  ever  dreamed!  When 
the  reading  was  over  talk  still  flowed;  the 
gloomy  old  hearth  knew  the  charm  of  a  home- 
circle.  All  started  incredulous  when  the  clock 
struck  one.  Just  as  Sophy  was  passing  to  the 
door,  out  from  behind  the  window-curtain  glared 
a  vindictive,  spiteful  eye.  Fairthorn  made  a 
mow  at  her,  which  'tis  a  pity  Waife  did  not  see 
- — it  would  have  been  a  study  for  Cahban.  She 
uttered  a  little  scream. 

"  ^^^lat's  the  matter?"  cried  the  host. 

"  Xothing,"  said  she,  quickly — far  too  gener- 
ous to  betray  the  hostile  oddities  of  the  musi- 
cian. "  Sir  Isaac  was  in  my  way — that  was 
all." 

"  Another  evening  we  must  have  Fairthorn's 
flute,"  said  Darrell.  '"What  a  pity  he  was  not 
here  to-night  I  —  he  would  have  enjoyed  such 
reading — no  one  more." 

Said  Mrs.  Morley,  "He  was  here  once  or 
twice  during  the  evening;  but  he  vanished  I" 

"  Vanishing  seems  his  forte,"  said  George. 

Darrell  looked  annoyed.  It  was  his  peculiar- 
ity to  resent  any  jest,  however  slight,  against  an 
absent  friend ;  and  at  that  moment  his  heart 
was  perhaps  more  warmed  toward  Dick  Fair- 
thorn than  to  any  man  living.  If  he  had  not 
determined  to  be  as  amiable  and  mild  toward 
his  guests  as  his  nature  would  permit,  probably 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


29.7 


Georize  mijrlit  have  had  the  flip  of  a  sarcasm 
which  would  have  tingled  for  a  month.  But  as 
it  was,  Darrell  contented  himself  with  saying, 
gravely, 

"  2\o,  George  ;  Fairthorn's  foible  is  vanishing 
— his  forte  is  fidelity.  If  my  fortune  were  to 
vanish,  Fairthorn  would  never  disappear;  and 
that's  more  than  I  would  say  if  I  were  a  King, 
and  Fairthorn — a  Bishop!" 

After  that  extraordinary  figure  of  speech 
"Good-nights"  were  somewhat  hastily  ex- 
changed; and  Fairthorn  was  left  behind  the 
curtain  with  feelings  toward  all  his  master's 
guests  as  little,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  like  those  of  a 
Christian  Bishop  toward  his  fellow-creatures  as 
thej  possibly  could  be. 


CHAPTER  YU. 

"Domus  et  placens  Uxor." 

Fairthorn  finds  nothing  placens  in  the  Vxor,  to  whom 
liomus  is  indebted  for  its  destruction. 

Another  day !  Lionel  is  expected  to  arrive 
an  hour  or  two  after  noon.  Darrell  is  in  his 
room — his  will  once  more  before  him.  He  has 
drawn  up  a  rough  copy  of  the  codicil  by  which 
Fawley  is  to  pass  away ;  and  the  name  of  Dar- 
rell be  consigned  to  the  care  of  grateful  Learn- 
ing, linked  with  prizes  and  fellowships — a  pub- 
lic property — lost  forever  to  private  representa- 
tives of  its  sepulchred  bearers.  Preparations 
for  departure  from  the  doomed  dwelling-house 
have  begun.  There  are  large  boxes  on  the 
floor ;  and  favorite  volumes — chiefly  in  science 
or  classics — lie  piled  beside  them  for  selection. 

Wliat  is  really  at  the  bottom  of  Guy  Darrell's 
heart  ?  Does  he  feel  reconciled  to  his  decision? 
Is  the  virtue  of  his  new  self-sacrifice  in  itself  a 
consoling  reward?  Is  that  cordial  urbanity, 
that  cheerful  kindness,  by  which  he  has  been 
yet  more  endearing  himself  to  his  guests,  sin- 
cere or  assumed  ?  As  he  throws  aside  his  ])en, 
and  leans  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  may  perhaps  best  answer 
those  questions.  It  has  more  unmingled  mel- 
ancholy than  was  habitual  to  it  before,  even 
when  in  his  gloomiest  moods ;  but  it  is  a  mel- 
ancholy much  more  soft  and  subdued  ;  it  is  the 
melancholy  of  resignation — that  of  a  man  who 
has  ceased  a  long  struggle — paid  his  ofl'ering  to 
the  appeased  Xemesis,  in  casting  into  the  sea 
the  thing  that  had  been  to  him  the  dearest. 

But  in  resignation,  when  complete,  there  is 
always  a  strange  relief.  Despite  that  melan- 
choly, Darrell  is  less  unhappy  than  he  has  been 
for  years.  He  feels  as  if  a  suspense  had  passed 
— a  load  been  lifted  from  his  breast.  After  all, 
he  has  secured,  to  the  best  of  his  judgment,  the 
happiness  of  the  living,  and  in  relinquishing 
the  object  to  which  his  own  life  has  been  vainly 
devoted,  and  immolating  the  pride  attached  to 
it,  he  has  yet,  to  use  his  own  words,  paid  his 
"dues  to  the  dead."  Xo  descendant  from  a 
Jasper  Losely  and  a  Gabrielle  Desmarets  will 
sit  as  mistress  of  the  house  in  which  Lovaltv 
and  Honor  had  garnered,  with  the  wrecks  of 
fortune,  the  memories  of  knightly  fame — nor 
perpetuate  the  name  of  DaiTcll  through  chil- 
dren whose  blood  has  a  source  in  the  sink  of 
infamy  and  fraud.  Xor  was  this  consolation 
that  of  a  culpable  pride ;  it  was  bought  by  the 


abdication  of  a  pride  that  had  opposed  its  preju- 
dices to  living  worth — to  living  happiness.  So- 
phy would  not  be  punished  for  sins  not  her  ovrn 
— Lionel  not  barred  from  a  prize  that  earth 
never  might  replace.  What  mattered  to  them 
a  mouldering,  old.  desolate  Manor  House — a  few 
hundreds  of  pitiful  acres  ?  Their  children  would 
not  be  less  blooming  if  their  holiday  summer 
noons  were  not  shaded  by  those  darksome  trees 
— nor  less  lively  of  wit,  if  their  school  themes 
were  signed  in  the  name,  not  of  Darrell,  but 
Haughton. 

A  slight  nenous  knock  at  the  door.  Darrell 
has  summoned  Fairthorn;  Fairthorn  enters. 
Dan-ell  takes  up  a  paper;  it  contains  minute 
instructions  as  to  the  demolition  of  the  two 
buildings.  The  materials  of  the  new  pile  may 
be  disposed  of,  sold,  caned  away — any  how, 
any  where.  Those  of  the  old  house  are"  sacred 
— not  a  brick  to  be  carried  from  the  precincts 
around  it.  No;  from  foundation  to  roof,  all  to 
be  piously  removed — to  receive  formal  inter- 
ment deep  in  the  still  bosom  of  the  little  lake, 
and  the  lake  to  be  filled  up  and  tuifed  over. 
The  pictures  and  antiquities  selected  for  the 
Darrell  ^Museum  are,  of  course,  to  be  carefully 
transported  to  London — warehoused  safely  till 
the  gift  from  owner  to  nation  be  legally  ratified. 
The  pictures  and  articles  of  less  value  will  be 
sent  to  an  auction.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
old  family  portraits  in  the  ^lanor  House,  the  old 
homely  furniture,  familiarized  to  sight  and  use 
and  love  from  infancy,  Danell  was  at  a  loss; 
his  invention  failed.  That  question  was  re- 
served for  farther  consideration. 

"And  why,"  says  Fairthorn,  bluntly  and 
coarsely,  urging  at  least  reprieve,  "why,  if  it 
must  be,  not  wait  till  you  are  no  more  ?  Why 
must  the  old  house  be  buried  before  you  are  ?" 

"Because,"  answered  Darrell,  "such  an  or- 
der, left  by  will,  would  seem  a  reproach  to  my 
heirs ;  it  would  wound  Lionel  to  the  quick. 
Done  in  my  lifetime,  and  just  after  I  have 
given  my  blessing  on  his  marriage,  I  can  sug- 
gest a  thousand  reasons  for  an  old  man's  whim  ; 
and  my  manner  alone  will  dispel  all  idea  of  a 
covert  afl:ront  to  his  charming  innocent  bride." 

"  I  wish  she  were  hanged,  with  all  my  heart," 
muttered  Fairthorn,  "coming  here  to  do  such 
astonishing  mischief!  But,  Sir,  I  can't  obey 
you ;  'tis  no  use  talking.  You  must  get  some 
one  else.  Parson  Morley  will  do  it — with  pleas- 
ure, too,  no  doubt;  or  "that  hobbling  old  man 
whom  I  suspect  to  be  a  conjuror.  Who  knows 
but  what  he  may  get  knocked  on  the  head  as 
he  is  looking  on  with  his  wicked  one  eye  ;  and 
then  there  will  be  an  end  of  him,  too,  which 
would  be  a  great  satisfaction!" 

"  Pshaw,  my  dear  Dick  ;  there  is  no  one  else 
I  can  ask  but  you.  The  Parson  would  argue ; 
I've  had  enough  of  his  arguings ;  and  the  old 
man  is  the  last  whom  my  own  arguings  could 
deceive.     Fiatjustitia." 

"  Don't,  Sir,  don't ;  you  are  breaking  my 
heart  I — 'tis  a  shame,  Sir,"  sobbed  the  poor 
faithful  rebel. 

"  Well,  Dick,  then  I  must  see  it  done  myself; 
and  you  shall  go  on  first  to  Sorrento,  and  hire 
some  villa  to  suit  us.  I  don't  see  why  Lionel 
should  not  be  married  next  week;  then  the 
house  will  be  clear.  And — yes — it  was  cow- 
ardlv  in   me   to   shrink.     Mine  be  the   task. 


298 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Shame  on  me  to  yield  it  to  another.     Go  back 
to  thy  flute,  Dick. 

"  'Neque  tibias 
Euterpe  cohibet,  nee  Polyhymnia 
Lesboum  refugit  tendere  barbiton!'" 

At  that  last  remorseless  shaft  from  the  Hora- 
tian  quiver,  "  Venenatis  gravida  sagittis,"  Fair- 
thorn  could  stand  ground  no  longer ;  there  was 
a  shamble — a  plunge — and  once  more  the  man 
was  vanished. 


CHAPTER  YIU. 

The  Flute-player  shows  how  little  Music  hath  power  to 
soothe  the  savage  breast — of  a  Musician. 

Fairthorn  found  himself  on  the  very  spot  in 
which,  more  than  five  years  ago,  Lionel,  stung 
by  Fairthorn's  own  incontinent  prickles,  had 
been  discovered  by  Darrell.  There  he  threw 
himself  on  the  ground,  as  the  boy  had  done ; 
there,  like  the  boy,  he  brooded  moodily,  bitter- 
ly— sore  with  the  world  and  himself.  To  that 
letter,  written  on  the  day  that  Darrell  had  so 
shocked  him,  and  on  which  letter  he  had  count- 
ed as  a  last  forlorn-hope,  no  answer  had  been 
given.  In  an  hour  or  so  Lionel  would  arrive ; 
those  hateful  nuptials,  dooming  Fawley  as  the 
nuptials  of  Taris  and  Helen  had  doomed  Troy, 
would  be  finally  arranged.  In  another  week 
the  work  of  demolition  would  commence.  He 
never  meant  to  leave  Darrell  to  superintend 
that  work.  Xo ;  grumble  and  refuse  as  he 
might  till  the  last  moment,  he  knew  well  enough 
that,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  he,  Richard 
Fairthorn,  must  endure  any  torture  that  could 
save  Guy  Darrell  from  a  pang.  A  voice  comes 
singing  low  through  the  grove — the  patter  of 
feet  on  the  crisp  leaves.  He  looks  up ;  Sir 
Isaac  is  scrutinizing  him  gravely — behind  Sir 
Isaac,  Darrell's  own  doe,  led  patiently  by  So- 
phy— yes,  lending  its  faithless  neck  to  that  fe- 
male criminal's  destroying  hand.  He  could  not 
bear  that  sight,  which  added  insult  to  injury. 
He  scrambled  up — darted  a  kick  at  Sir  Isaac — 
snatched  the  doe  from  the  girl's  hand,  and 
looked  her  in  the  face  {her — not  Sophy,  but  the 
doe)  with  a  reproach  that,  if  the  brute  had  not 
been  lost  to  all  sense  of  shame,  would  have  cut 
her  to  the  heart ;  then,  turning  to  Sophy,  he 
said,  "  Xo,  Miss!  I  reared  this  creature — fed 
it  with  my  own  hands,  Miss.  I  gave  it  up  to 
Guy  Darrell,  Miss;  and  you  sha'n't  steal  this 
from  him  whatever  else  you  may  do,  Miss." 

SopH\\  "Indeed,  Mr.  Fairthorn.  it  was  for 
Mr.  Darrell's  sake  that  I  wished  to  make  friends 
with  the  doe — as  you  would  with  poor  Sir  Isaac, 
if  you  would  but  try  and  like  me — a  little,  only 
a  very  little,  Mr.  Fairthorn." 

Fairthorn.   "  Don't  I" 

Sophy.  "Don't  what  ?  I  am  so  sorry  to  see  I 
have  annoyed  you  somehow.  You  have  not 
been  the  same  person  to  me  the  last  two  or 
three  days.  Tell  me  what  I  have  done  wrong ; 
scold  me,  but  make  it  up." 

Fairthorn.  "  Don't  hold  out  your  hand  to 
me !  Don't  be  smiling  in  ray  face  I  I  don't 
choose  it !  Get  out  of  my  sight !  You  are 
standing  between  me  and  the  old  house — rob- 
bing me  even  of  my  last  looks  at  the  home  which 
you—  " 

Sophy.  "  Which  I— what  ?" 


Fairthorn.  "Don't,  I  say,  don't  —  don't 
tempt  me.  You  had  better  not  ask  questions — 
that's  all.  I  shall  tell  you  the  truth  ;  I  know  I 
shall ;  my  tongue  is  itching  to  tell  it.  Please  to 
walk  on." 

Despite  the  grotesque  manner  and  astound- 
ing rudeness  of  the  flute-player,  his  distress  of 
mind  was  so  evident — there  was  something  so 
genuine  and  earnest  at  the  bottom  of  bis  ludi- 
crous anger — that  Sophy  began  to  feel  a  vague 
presentiment  of  evil.  That  she  was  the  myste- 
rious cause  of  some  great  suifering  to  this  strange 
enemy,  whom  she  had  unconsciously  provoked, 
was  clear ;  and  she  said,  therefore,  with  more 
gravity  than  she  had  before  evinced, 

"  Mr.  Fairthorn,  tell  me  how  I  have  incurred 
your  displeasure.  I  entreat  you  to  do  so ;  no 
matter  how  painful  the  truth  may  be,  it  is  due 
to  us  both  not  to  conceal  it." 

A  ray  of  hope  darted  through  Fairthorn's  en- 
raged and  bewildered  mind.  He  looked  to  the 
right — he  looked  to  the  left ;  no  one  near.  Re- 
leasing his  hold  on  the  doe,  he  made  a  side- 
long dart  toward  Sophy,  and  said,  "  Hush !  do 
you  really  care  what  becomes  of-Mr.  Darrell  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do." 

"  You  would  not  wish  him  to  die  broken- 
hearted in  a  foreign  land — that  old  house  level- 
ed to  the  ground,  and  buried  in  the  lake  ?  Eh, 
Miss— eh  ?" 

"How  can  you  ask  me  such  questions  ?"  said 
Sophy,  faintly.  "  Do  speak  plainly,  and  at 
once." 

"  Well,  I  will,  Miss,  I  believe  you  are  a  good 
young  lady,  after  all — and  don't  wish  really  to 
bring  disgrace  upon  all  who  want  to  keep  you 
in  the  dark,  and — " 

"Disgrace!"  interrupted  Sophy;  and  her 
pure  spirit  rose,  and  the  soft  blue  eye  flashed  a 
ray  like  a  shooting-star. 

"No,  I  am  sure  you  would  not  like  it;  and 
some  time  or  other  you  could  not  help  knowing, 
and  you  would  be  very  soriy  for  it.  And  that 
boy,  Lionel,  who  was  as  proud  as  Guy  Darrell 
himself  when  I  saw  him  last  (prouder,  indeed) 
— that  he  should  be  so  ungrateful  to  his  bene- 
factor! And,  indeed,  the  day  may  come  when 
he  may  turn  round  on  }ou,  or  on  the  lame  old 
gentleman,  and  say  he  has  been  disgraced. 
Should  not  wonder  at  all !  Young  folks,  when 
thev  are  sweet-hearting,  only  talk  about  roses, 
and  angels,  and  such  like ;  but  when  husbands 
and  wives  fall  out,  as  they  always  do  sooner  or 
later,  they  don't  mince  their  words  then,  and 
they  just  take  the  sharpest  thing  that  they  can 
find  at  their  tongue's  end.  So  you  may  depend 
on  it,  my  dear  Miss,  that  some  day  or  other  that 
young  Haughton  will  say  '  that  you  lost  him  the 
old  Manor  House  and  the  old  Darrell  name,'  and 
have  been  his  disgrace ;  that's  the  verj-  word, 
Miss ;  I've  heard  husbands  and  wives  say  it  to 
each  other  over  and  over  again." 

Sophy.  "Oh,  Mr.  Fairthorn,  Mr.  Fairthorn! 
these  horrid  words  can  not  be  meant  for  me.  I 
will  go  to  Mr.  Darrell — I  will  ask  him  how  I 
can  be  a  dis — "  Her  lips  could  not  force  out 
the  word. 

FAiRTHonN.  "Ay;  go  to  Mr.  Darrell,  if  you 
please.  He  will  deny  it  all ;  he  will  never  speak 
to  me  again.  I  don't  care — I  am  reckless.  But 
it  is  not  the  less  true  that  you  make  him  an  ex- 
ile because  you  may  make  me  a  beggar." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


299 


SoFHT  {ivringing  her  liands).    "  Have  you  no 

ni?rcy,  Mr.  Fiiirthorn  ?    Will  you  not  explain  ?" 

Fairthoun.  "Yes,  ifyou  will  promise  to  keep 

it  secret  at  least  for  the  next  six  mouths — any 

thintj;  for  breathing  time." 

yoPHY  (iiujHitieiUlt/).  "I  promise,  I  promise! 
s])eak,  sj)eak !" 

Andtiien  Fairtliorn  did  speak !  He  did  speak 
of  Jasper  Losely — his  character — his  debase- 
ment— even  of  his  midnight  visit  to  her  host's 
chamber.  He  did  speak  of  the  child  fraudu- 
lently sought  to  be  thrust  on  Darrell — of  Dar- 
rell's  just  indignation  and  loathing.  The  man 
was  merciless  ,  though  he  had  not  an  idea  of 
the  anguish  he  was  mfiictiug,  he  was  venting  his 
own  anguish.  All  the  mystery  of  her  past  life 
became  clear  at  once  to  the  unhappy  girl — all 
that  had  been  kept  from  her  by  protecting  love. 
All  her  vague  conjectures  now  became  a  dread- 
ful certainty ; — explained  now  why  Lionel  had 
fl^d  her — why  he  had  written  that  letter,  over 
the  contents  of  which  she  had  pondered,  with 
lier  finger  on  her  lip,  as  if  to  iuish  her  own 
sighs — all,  all !  She  marry  Lionel  now !  im- 
possible !  She  bring  disgrace  upon  him,  in  re- 
turn for  such  generous,  magnanimous  affection ! 
She  drive  his  benefactor,  her  graudsire's  vindi- 
cator, from  his  own  hearth !  Slie — she — that 
Sophy  who,  as  a  mere  infant,  had  recoiled  from 
the  thought  of  playful  subterfuge  and  tamper- 
ings  with  plain  honest  truth  i  bhe  rose  before 
Fairthorn  had  done;  indeed  the  tormentor,  left 
to  himself,  would  not  have  ceased  till  nightfall. 
"Fear  not,  Mr  Fairthorn,"  she  said,  reso- 
hitely,  "  Mr.  Darrell  will  be  no  exile ;  his  house 
v.ill  not  be  destroyed.  Lionel  Ilaughton  shall 
not  wed  the  child  of  disgrace !  Fear  not,  Sir ; 
all  is  safe !" 

She  shed  not  a  tear;  nor  was  there  writ  on 
her  countenance  that  CHANGE,  speaking  of  blight- 
ed hope,  which  had  passed  over  it  at  her  young 
lover's  melancholy  farewell.  No,  now  she  was 
supported — now  there  was  a  virtue  by  the  side 
of  a  sorrow—  now  love  was  to  shelter  and  save 
the  beloved  from  disgrace — from  disgrace !  At 
that  thought  disgrace  fell  harmless  from  herself 
as  the  rain  from  the  plumes  of  a  bird.  She 
passed  on,  her  cheek  glowing,  her  form  erect. 

By  the  porch  door  she  met  Waife  and  the 
Morleys.  With  a  kind  of  wild  impetuosity  she 
seized  the  old  man"s  arm,  and  drew  it  fondly, 
chngingly  within  her.  own.  Henceforth  they 
two  were  to  be,  as  in  years  gone  by,  all  in  all 
to  each  other.  George  Morley  eyed  her  coun- 
tenance in  thoughtful  surprise.  "  Mrs.  Morley, 
bent  as  usual  on  saying  something  seasonably 
kind,  burst  into  a  eulogium  on  her  brilliant  col- 
or. So  they  passed  on  toward  the  garden  side 
of  the  house.  Wheels — tlie  tramp  of  hoofs,  full 
gallop;  and  George  Morley,  looking  up,  ex- 
claimed, '"Ha!  here  comes  Lionel! — and  see, 
Darrell  is  hastening  out  to  -welcome  him!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  letter  on  which  Richard  Fairthorn  relied  for  the  de- 
feat of  the  conapiracy  against  Fawley  Manor  House. 
Bad  aspects  for  Houses.  The  House  of  Vipont  is  threat- 
ened. A  Physician  attempts  to  medicine  to  a  mind  dis- 
eased. A  strange  communication,  which  Lurries  the 
reader  on  to  the  next  Chapter. 


It  has  been  said  that  Fairthorn  had  committed 
to  a  certain  letter  his  last  desperate  ho]^e  that 
something  might  yet  save  Fawley  from  demoli- 
tion, and  himself  and  his  master  from  an  exile's 
home  in  that  smiling  nook  of  earth  to  which 
Horace  invited  Septimius,  as  uniting  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  mild  climate,  excellent  mutton, 
ca])ital  wine;  and  affording  to  Septimius  the 
prospective  privilege  of  sprinkling  a  tear  over 
the  cinder  of  his  poetical  friend  while  the  cinder 
was  yet  warm ;  inducements  which  had  no  charm 
at  all  to  Fairthorn,  who  was  quite  satisfied  with 
the  Fawley  Southdowns — held  in  just  horror  all 
wishy-washy  light  wines — and  had  no  desire  to 
see  Darrell  reduced  to  a  cinder  for  the  pleasure 
of  sprinkling  that  cinder  with  a  tear. 

The  letter  in  question  was  addressed  to  Lady 
Montfort.  LTnscrupulously  violating  the  sacred 
confidence  of  his  master,  the  treacherous  wretch, 
after  accusing  her  in  language  little  more  con- 
sistent with  the  respect  due  to  the  fair  sex  than 
that  which  lie  had  addressed  to  Sophy,  of  all  the 
desolation  that  the  ]jerfidious  nuptials  of  Caro- 
line Lyndsay  had  brought  upon  Guy  Darrell,  de- 
clared that  the  least  Lady  Montfort  could  do  to 
repair  the  wrongs  inflicted  by  Caroline  Lyndsay, 
was — not  to  pity  his  master! — that  her  pity  was 
killing  him.  He  repeated,  with  some  grotesque 
comments  of  his  own,  but  on  the  whole  not  in- 
accurately, what  Darrell  had  said  to  him  on  the 
subject  of  her  pity.  He  then  informed  her 
of  Darrell's  consent  to  Lionel's  marriage  with 
Sophy ;  in  which  criminal  esjiousals  it  was  clear, 
from  Darrell's  words,  that  Lady  Montfort  had 
had  some  nefarious  share.  In  the  most  lugu- 
brious colors  he  brought  before  her  the  conse- 
quences of  that  marriage  —  the  extinguished 
name,  the  demolished  dwelling-place,  the  re- 
nunciation of  native  soil  itself.  He  called  upon 
her,  by  all  that  was  sacred,  to  contrive  some 
means  to  undo  the  terrible  mischief  she  had 
originally  occasioned,  and  had  recently  helped 
to  complete.  His  epistle  ended  by  an  attempt 
to  conciliate  and  coax.  He  revived  the  image 
of  that  wild  Caroline  Lyndsay  to  whom  he  had 
never  refused  a  favor;  whose  earliest  sums  he 
had  assisted  to  cast  up — to  whose  young  idea  he 
had  communicated  the  elementary  principles  of 
the  musical  gamut — to  whom  he  "had  played  on 
his  flute,  winter  eve  and  summer  noon,  by  the 
hour  together ;  that  Caroline  Lyndsay  who,  when 
a  mere  child,  had  led  Guy  Darrell'  where  she 
willed,  as  by  a  thread  of  silk.  Ah,  how  Fair- 
thorn had  leaped  for  joy  when,  eighteen  years 
ago,  he  had  thought  that  Caroline  Lyndsay  was 
to  be  the  sunsjiine  and  delight  of  the  house  to 
which  she  had  lived  to  bring  the  cloud  and  the 
grief!  And  by  all  these  memories,  Fairthorn 
conjured  her  either  to  break  off  the  marriage  she 
had  evidently  helped  to  bring  about,  or,  failing 
that,  to  convince  Guy  Darrell  that  he  was  not 
the  object  of  her  remorseful  and  affectionate  com- 
passion ! 

Caroline  was  almost  beside  herself  at  the  re- 
ceipt of  this  letter.  The  picture  of  Guy  Darrell 
effacing  his  very  life  from  his  native  land,  and 
destroying  the  last  memorials  of  his  birthright 
and  his  home — the  conviction  of  the  influence 
she  still  retained  over  his  bleak  and  solitary  ex- 
istence— the  experience  she  had  already  acquired 
that  the  influence  failed  where  she  had  so  fond- 
ly hoped  it  might  begin  to  repair  and  to  bless, 


300 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


all  overpowered  her  with  emotions  of  yearning 
tenderness  and  unmitigated  despair.  What 
could  she  do?  She  could  not  offer  herself, 
again  to  be  rejected.  She  could  not  write  again, 
to  force  her  penitence  upon  the  man  who,  while 
acknowledging  his  love  to  be  unconquered,  had 
so  resolutely  refused  to  see,  in  the  woman  who 
had  once  deceived  his  trust — the  Caroline  of 
old !  Alas  !  if  he  were  but  under  the  delusion 
that  her  pity  was  the  substitute,  and  not  the  com- 
panion of  love,  how  could  she  undeceive  him  ? 
How  say — how  write — "  Accept  me,  for  I  love 
you."  Caroline  Montfort  had  no  pride  of  rank, 
but  she  had  pi-ide  of  sex ;  that  pride  had  been 
called  forth,  encouraged,  strengthened,  through- 
out all  the  years  of  her  wedded  life.  For  Guy 
Darrell's  sake,  and  to  him  alone,  that  pride  slie 
had  cast  away — trampled  upon  ;  such  humility 
was  due  to  him.  But  when  the  humility  had 
been  once  in  vain,  could  it  be  repeated — would 
it  not  be  debasement?  In  the  first  experiment 
she  had  but  to  bow  to  his  reproach — in  a  second 
experiment  she  might  have  but  to  endure  his 
contempt.  Yet  how,  with  her  sweet,  earnest, 
affectionate  nature  —  how  she  longed  for  one 
more  interview  —  one  more  explanation!  If 
chance  could  but  bring  it  about ;  if  she  had  but 
a  pretext — a  fair  reason  apart  from  any  interest 
of  her  own,  to  be  in  his  presence  once  more! 
But  in  a  few  days  he  would  have  left  England 
forever — his  heart  yet  more  hardened  in  its  re- 
solves by  the  last  sacrifice  to  what  it  had  so  stern- 
ly recognized  to  be  a  due  to  others.  Never  to 
see  him  more — never!  to  know  how  much  in 
that  sacrifice  he  was  suffering  now — would  per- 
haps suffer  more  hereafter,  in  the  reaction  that 
follows  all  strain  upon  purpose — and  yet  not  a 
word  of  comfort  from  hex- — her  who  felt  born  to 
be  his  comforter ! 

But  this  marriage,  that  cost  him  so  much, 
must  that  be  ?  Could  she  dare,  even  for  his 
sake,  to  stand  between  two  such  fair  young  lives 
as  those  of  Lionel  and  Sophy — confide  to  them 
what  Fairthorn  had  declared — appeal  to  their 
generosity  ?  She  shrunk  from  inflicting  such 
intolerable  sorrow.  Could  it  be  her  duty  ?  In 
her  inability  to  solve  tliis  last  problem,  she  be- 
thought herself  of  Albau  Morley  ;  here,  at  least, 
he  might  give  advice — offer  suggestion.  She 
sent  to  his  house  entreating  him  to  call.  Her 
messenger  was  some  hours  before  he  found  the 
Colonel,  and  then  brought  back  but  a  few  hasty 
lines — "  Impossible  to  call  that  day.  The  Crisis 
had  come  at  last !  The  Country,  the  House  of 
Vipont,  the  British  Empire,  were  trembling  in 
the  balance.  The  Colonel  was  engaged  every 
moment  for  the  next  twelve  hours.  He  had  the 
present  Earl  of  IMontfort,  who  was  intractable 
and  stupid  beyond  conception,  to  see  and  talk 
over;  Carr  Vipont  was  hard  at  work  on  the 
materials  for  the  new  Cabinet — Alban  was  help- 
ing Carr  Vipont.  If  the  House  of  Vipont  failed 
England  at  this  moment,  it  would  not  be  a  Cri- 
sis, but  a  CRASH !  The  Colonel  hoped  to  ar- 
range an  interview  with  Lady  Montfort  for  a 
minute  or  two  the  next  da^^  But  jjcrhaps  she 
would  excuse  him  from  a  journey  to  Twicken- 
ham, and  drive  into  town  to  see  him ;  if  not  at 
home,  he  would  leave  woi-d  where  he  was  to  be 
found." 

By  the  beard  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus,  there 
are  often  revolutions  in  the  heart  of  a  woman, 


during  which  she  is  callous  to  a  Crisis,  and 
has  not  even  a  fear  for  a  CRASH ! 

The  next  day  came  George's  letter  to  Caro- 
line, with  the  gentle  message  from  Darrell ;  and 

when  Dr.  F ,  whose  apprehensions  for  the 

state  of  her  health  Colonel  Morley  had  by  no 
means  exaggerated,  called  in  the  afternoon  to 
see  the  efi'ect  of  his  last  prescription,  he  found 
her  in  such  utter  prostration  of  nerves  and 
spirits,  that  he  resolved  to  hazard  a  dose  not 
much  known  to  great  ladies,  viz.,  three  grains 
of  plain-speaking,  M'ith  a  minim  of  frightening. 

"My  dear  lady,"  said  he,  "yours  is  a  case  in 
which  physicians  can  be  of  very  little  use.  There 
is  something  on  the  mind  which  my  prescrip- 
tions fail  to  reach ;  worry  of  some  sort — decided- 
ly worry.  And  unless  you  yourself  can  either 
cure  that,  or  will  make  head  against  it,  worry, 
my  dear  Lady  IMontfort,  will  end,  not  in  con- 
sumption— you  are  too  finely  formed  to  let  worry 
eat  holes  in  the  lungs — no ;  but  in  a  confirmed 
aneurism  of  the  heart,  and  the  first  sudden 
shock  might  then  be  immediately  fatal.  The 
heart  is  a  noble  organ — bears  a  gi-eat  deal — but 
still  its  endurance  has  limits.  Heart  complaints 
are  more  common  than  they  were  ; — over-educa- 
tion and  over-civilization,  I  suspect.  Very  young 
people  are  not  so  subject  to  tliem ;  they  have 
flurry,  not  worry — a  very  dift'erent  thing.  A 
good  chronic  silent  grief  of  some  years'  stand- 
ing, that  gets  worried  into  acute  inflammation 
at  the  age  when  feeling  is  no  longer  fancy, 
throws  out  a  heart-disease  wliich  sometimes 
kills  without  warning,  or  sometimes,  if  the  grief 
be  removed,  will  rather  prolong  than  shorten 
life,  by  inducing  a  prudent  avoidance  of  worry 
in  future.  There  is  that  worthy  old  gentleman 
who  was  taken  so  ill  at  Fawley,  and  about  whom 
you  were  so  anxious ;  in  his  case  there  had 
certainly  been  chronic  grief;  then  came  acute 
worry,  and  the  heart  could  not  get  through  its 
duties.  Fifty  j'ears  ago  doctors  would  have 
cried  '  apoplexy !' — nowadays  we  know  that  the 
heart  saves  the  head.  Well,  he  was  more  easy 
in  his  mind  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  and,  thanks 
to  his  temperance,  and  his  constitutional  dislike 
to  self-indulgence  in  worry,  he  may  jog  on  to 
eighty,  in  spite  of  the  stenoscope !  Excess  in 
the  moral  emotions  gives  heart-disease;  abuse 
of  the  physical  powers,  paralysis ; — both  more 
common  than  they  were — the  first  for  your  gen- 
tle sex,  the  second  for  our  rough  one.  Both, 
too,  lie  in  wait  for  their  victims  at  the  entrance 
into  middle  life.  I  have  a  very  fine  case  of  pa- 
ralysis now ;  a  man  built  up  by  nature  to  live  to 
a  hundred — never  saw  such  a  splendid  forma- 
tion—  such  bone  and  such  muscle.  I  would 
have  given  Van  Amburgh  the  two  best  of  his 
lions,  and  my  man  would  have  done  for  all  three 
in  five  minutes.  All  the  worse  for  him,  my 
dear  lady — all  the  worse  for  him.  His  strength 
leads  him  on  to  abuse  the  main  fountains  of  life, 
and  out  jumps  avenging  Paralysis  and  fells  him 
to  eartli  with  a  blow.  'Tis  your  Hercules  that 
Paralysis  loves  ;  she  despises  the  weak  invalid, 
who  prudently  shuns  all  excess.  And  so,  rny 
dear  lady,  that  assassin  called  Aneurism  lies  in 
wait  for"  the  hearts  that  abuse  their  o\yn  force 
of  emotion ;  sparing  hearts  that,  less  vital,  are 
thrifty  in  waste  and  supply.  But  you  are  not 
listening  to  me !  And  yet 'my  patient  rii.ay  not 
be  quite  unknown  to  your  ladyship ;  for  in  hap- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


301 


pening  to  mention,  the  other  day,  to  the  lady 
who  attends  to  and  nurses  him,  that  I  could  not 
call  this  mornin;:;,  as  I  had  a  visit  to  pay  to 
Lady  Montfort  at  Twickenham,  she  became  very 
anxious  about  you  and  wrote  this  note  vvliich 
she  begged  me  to  give  you.  She  seems  very 
much  attached  to  my  patient — not  his  wife  nor 
his  sister.  She  interests  me  ; — capital  nurse — 
cleverish  woman  too.     Oh  !  here  is  the  note." 

Caroline,  who  had  given  but  little  heed  to  this 
recital,  listlessly  received  the  note  —  scarcely 
looked  at  the  address — and  was  about  to  put  it 
aside,  wlien  the  good  doctor,  who  was  intent 
upon  rousing  her  by  any  means,  said,  "No,  my 
dear  lady,  I  promised  that  I  would  see  you  read 
the  note ;  besides,  I  am  the  most  cuiuous  of 
men,  and  dying  to  know  a  little  more  who  and 
what  is  the  writer." 

Caroline  broke  the  seal  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  If  Lady  Montfort  remembers  Arabella  Fos- 
sett,  and  will  call  at  Clare  Cottage,  Vale  of 
Health,  Hampstead,  at  her  ladyship's  earliest 
leisure,  and  ask  for  Mrs.  Crane,  some  informa- 
tion, not  perhaps  important  to  Lady  Montfort, 
but  very  important  to  Mr.  Darrell,  will  be  given." 

Lady  INIontfort  startled  the  doctor  by  the 
alertness  with  whicli  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  he. 

"  The  carriage  immediatel}',  cried  Lady 
Montfort  as  the  servant  entered. 

Ah !  you  are  going  to  see  the  poor  lady,  IMrs. 
Crane,  eh?  Well,  it  is  a  charming  drive,  and 
just  what  I  should  have  recommended.  Any 
exertion  will  do  you  good.  Allow  me ; — why 
your  pulse  is  already  fifty  per  cent,  better.  Fray, 
what  relation  is  Mrs.  Crane  to  my  patient  ?" 

"I  really  don't  know;  pray  excuse  me,  my 
dear  Dr.  F ." 

"  Certainly ;  go  while  the  day  is  fine.  Wrap 
up; — a  close  carriage,  mind; — and  I  will  look 
iu  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  X. 


Wherein  is  insinuated  the  highest  compliment  to  Wo- 
man ever  paid  to  her  sex  by  the  Author  of  this  work. 

L.4,DY  Montfort  has  arrived  at  Clare  Cottage. 
She  is  shown  by  Bridget  Greggs  into  a  small 
room  upon  the  first  floor  ;  folding-doors  to  some 
other  room,  closely  shut — evidences  of  sickness 
in  the  house ; — phials  on  the  chimney-piece — a 
tray  M'ith  a  brotli  basin  on  the  table — a  sauce- 
pan on  the  hob — the  sofa  one  of  those  that  serve 
as  a  bed  which  sleep  little  visits  for  one  who 
may  watch  through  the  night  over  some  helpless 
suff'erer  —  a  woman's  shawl  thrown  carelessly 
over  its  hard  narrow  bolster ; — all,  in  short,  be- 
traying that  pathetic  untidiness  and  discomfort 
which  says  that  a  despot  is  in  the  house  to 
whose  will  order  and  form  are  subordinate; — 
the  imperious  Tyranny  of  Disease  establishing 
itself  in  a  life  that,  within  those  four  walls,  has 
a  value  not  to  be  measured  by  its  worth  to  the 
world  beyond.  The  more  feeble  and  helpless 
the  sufferer,  the  more  sovereign  the  despotism 
— the  more  submissive  the  servitude. 

In  a  minute  or  two  one  of  the  folding-dooi's 
silently  opened,  and  as  silently  closed,  admitting 
into  Lady  Montfort's  presence  a  grim  woman  in 
iron  gray. 


Caroline  could  not,  at  the  first  glance,  recog- 
nize that  Arabella  Fossett  of  whose  handsome, 
if  somewhat  too  strongly  defined  and  sombre 
countenance,  she  had  retained  a  faithful  remi- 
niscence. But  Arabella  had  still  the  same  im- 
posing manner  whicli  had  often  repressed  the 
gay  spirits  of  her  young  pupil ;  and  as  she  now 
•motioned  the  great  lady  to  a  seat,  and  placed 
herself  beside,  an  awed  recollection  of  the  school- 
room bowed  Cai-oline's  lovely  head  in  mute  re- 
spect. 

Mrs.  Crane.  "You  too  are  changed  since  I 
saw  you  last — that  was  more  than  five  years  ago, 
but  you  are  not  less  beautiful.  You  can  still  be 
loved ;  you  would  not  scare  away  the  man  whom 
you  might  desire  to  save.  Sorrow  has  its  par- 
tialities. Do  you  know  that  I  have  a  cause  to 
be  grateful  to  you,  without  any  merit  of  your 
own.  In  a  very  dark  moment  of  my  life — only 
vindictive  and  evil  passions  crowding  on  me — 
your  face  came  across  my  sight.  Goodness 
seemed  there  so  beautiful — and,  in  this  face, 
Evil  looked  so  haggard !  Do  not  interrupt  me. 
I  have  but  few  minutes  to  spare  you.  Yes ;  at 
the  sight  of  that  face,  gentle  recollections  rose 
up.  You  had  ever  been  kind  to  me ;  and  truth- 
ful, Caroline  Lyndsay — truthful.  Other  thoughts 
came  at  the  beam  of  that  face,  as  other  thoughts 
come  when  a  strain  of  unexpected  music  reminds 
us  of  former  days.  I  can  not  tell  how,  but  from 
that  moment  a  something  more  like  womanhood 
than  I  had  known  for  years  entered  into  my 
heart.  Within  that  same  hour  I  was  sorely 
tried — galled  to  the  quick  of  my  soul.  Had  I 
not  seen  you  before,  I  might  have  dreamed  of 
nothing  but  a  stern  and  dire  revenge.  And  a 
purpose  of  revenge  I  did  form.  But  it  was  not 
to  destroy — it  was  to  save !  I  resolved  that  the 
man  who  laughed  to  scorn  the  idea  of  vows  due 
to  me — vows  to  bind  life  to  life — should  yet  sooner 
or  later  be  as  firmly  mine  as  if  he  had  kept  his 
troth ;  that  my  troth  at  least  should  be  kept  to 
him,  as  if  it  had  been  uttered  at  the  altar.  Hush, 
did  you  hear  a  moan  ? — No  !  He  lies  yonder, 
Caroline  Lyndsay — mine,  indeed,  till  the  grave 
us  do  part.  These  hands  have  closed  over  him, ' 
and  he  rests  in  their  clasp,  helpless  as  an  infant." 
Involuntarily  Caroline  recoiled.  But  looking 
into  that  care-worn  face,  there  was  in  it  so  wild 
a  mixture  of  melancholy  tenderness,  with  a  re- 
solved and  fierce  expression  of  triumph,  that, 
more  impressed  by  the  tenderness  than  by  the 
triumph,  the  woman  sympathized  with  the  wo- 
man; and  CaroHne  again  drew  near,  nearer 
than  before,  and  in  her  deep  soft  eyes  pity  alone 
was  seen.  Into  those  eyes  Arabella  looked  as 
if  spell-bound,  and  the  darker  and  sterner  ex- 
pression in  her  own  face  gradually  relaxed  and 
fled,  and  only  the  melancholy  tenderness  was 
left  behind.     She  resumed: 

"I  said  to  Guy  Darrell  that  I  would  learn,  if 
possible,  whether  the  poor  child  whom  I  ill-used 
in  my  most  wicked  days,  and  whom  you,  it  seems, 
have  so  benignly  sheltered,  was  the  daughter  of 
Matilda — or,  as  he  believed,  of  a  yet  more  hate- 
ful mother.  Long  ago  I  had  conceived  a  sus- 
picion that  there  was  some  ground  to  doubt  poor 
Jasper's  assertion,  for  I  had  chanced  to  see  two 
letters  addressed  to  him — one  from  that  Gabri- 
elle  Desmarets,  whose  influence  over  his  life  had 
been  so  baleful — in  which  she  spoke  of  some 
guilty  plunder  with  which  she  was  coming  to 


302 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


London,  and  in\-ited  him  again  to  join  his  for- 
tunes with  her  own.  Oh,  but  the  cold,  blood- 
less villainy  of  the  tone  1 — the  ease  with  which 
crimes  for  a  gibbet  were  treated  as  topics  for 
wit  I"  Arabella  stoj^ped  —  the  same  shudder 
came  over  her  as  when  she  had  concluded  the 
epistles  abstracted  from  the  dainty  pocket-book. 
"But  in  the  letter  were  also  allusions  to  Sophy, 
to  another  attempt  on  Darrell  to  be  made  by 
Gabrielle  herself  Nothing  very  clear;  but  a 
doubt  did  suggest  itself — '  Is  she  writing  to  him 
about  his  own  child  ?'  The  other  letter  was  from 
the  French  nurse  with  whom  Sophy  had  been 
placed  as  an  infant.  It  related  to  inquiries  in 
person,  and  a  visit  to  her  own  house,  which  Mr. 
Darrell  had  recently  made ;  that  letter  also 
seemed  to  imply  some  deception,  though  but  by 
a  few  dubious  words.  At  that  time  the  chief 
etfect  of  the  suspicion  these  letters  caused  was 
but  to  make  me  more  bent  on  repairing  to  Sophy 
my  cruelties  to  her  childhood.  What  if  I  had 
been  cruel  to  an  infant  who,  after  all,  was  not 
the  daughter  of  that  false,  false  ilatiIJa  Darrell ! 
I  kept  in  my  memory  the  French  nurse's  ad- 
dress. I  thought  that  when  in  France  I  might 
seek  and  question  her.  But  I  lived  only  for  one 
absorbing  end.  Sophy  was  not  then  in  danger ; 
and  even  my  suspicions  as  to  her  birth  died 
away.  Pass  on  :  —  Guy  Darrell  1  Ah,  Lady 
Montfort  I  his  life  has  been  imbittered  like  mine ; 
but  he  was  man,  and  could  bear  it  better.  He 
has  known,  himself,  the  misery  of  broken  faith, 
of  betrayed  atfection,  which  he  could  pity  so 
little  when  its  blight  fell  on  me ;  but  you  have 
excuse  for  desertion  —  you  yourself  were  de- 
ceived :  and  I  pardon  him,  for  he  pardoned  Jas- 
per, and  we  are  fellow-sufferers.  You  weep  I 
Pardon  my  rudeness.  I  did  not  mean  to  pain 
you.  Try  and  listen  calmly — I  must  hurry  on. 
On  leaving  Mr.  Darrell  I  crossed  to  France.  I 
saw  the  nurse ;  I  have  ascertained  the  truth ; 
here  are  the  proofs  in  this  packet.  I  came  back 
— I  saw  Jasper  Losely.  He  was  on  the  eve  of 
seeking  you.  whom  he  had  already  so  MTonged 
— of  claiming  the  child,  or  rather  of  extorting 
money  for  the  renunciation  of  a  claim  to  one 
whom  you  had  adopted.  I  told  him  how  vainly 
he  liad  hitherto  sought  to  fly  from  me.  One  by 
one  I  recited  the  guilty  schemes  in  which  I  had 
bartied  his  purpose — all  the  dangers  from  whiLh 
I  had  rescued  his  life.  I  commanded  him  to 
forbear  the  project  he  had  then  commenced.  I 
told  him  I  would  frustrate  that  project  as  I  had 
frustrated  others.  Alas,  alas  I  why  is  this  tongue 
so  harsh  ? — why  does  this  face  so  belie  the  idea 
of  human  kindness  ?  I  did  but  enrage  and  mad- 
den him  ;  he  felt  but  the  reckless  impulse  to  de- 
stroy the  life  that  then  stood  between  himself 
and  the  objects  to  which  he  had  pledged  his 
own  self  destruction.  I  thought  I  should  die  by 
his  hand.  I  did  not  quail.  Ah !  the  ghastly 
change  that  came  over  his  face — the  one  glance 
of  amaze  and  superstitious  horror ;  his  arm 
obeyed  him  not;  his  strength,  liis  limbs  forsook 
him  ;  lie  fell  at  my  feet — one  side  of  him  strick- 
en dead  I  Hist!  that  is  his  voice — [jardon  me  ;" 
and  Arabella  flitted  from  the  room,  leaving  the 
door  ajar. 

A  feeble  Voice,  like  the  treble  of  an  infirm 
old  man,  came  painfully  to  Caroline's  ear. 

"  I  want  to  turn ;  help  me.  Why  am  I  left 
alone  ?     It  is  cruel  to  leave  me  so — cruel !" 


In  the  softest  tones  to  which  that  harsh  voice 
could  be  tuned,  the  grim  woman  apologized  and 
soothed. 

"You  gave  me  leave,  Jasper  dear.  Y'ou  said 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  you  to  have  her  pardon 
as  well  as  theirs." 

' '  Whose  pardon  ?"  asked  the  Voice,  queru- 
lously. 

"  Caroline  Lyndsay's — Lady  Montfort's." 

"  Nonsense  I  What  did  I  ever  do  against 
her  ?  Oh — ah  I  I  remember  now.  Don't  let 
me  have  it  over  agam.  Y'es — she  pardons  me, 
I  suppose !  Get  me  my  broth,  and  don't  be 
long  I" 

Arabella  came  back,  closing  the  door;  and 
while  she  busied  herself  with  that  precious 
saucepan  on  the  hob — to  which  the  Marchion- 
ess of  Montfort  had  become  a  very  secondary 
object — she  said,  looking  toward  Caroline  from 
under  her  iron-gray  ringlets — 

"You  heard — he  misses  me!  He  can't  bear 
me  out  of  his  sight  now — me,  me !  You 
heard  I" 

Meekly  Lady  Montfort  advanced,  bringing  in 
her  hand  the  tray  with  the  broth  basin. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  I  I  must  not  keep  you ;  but  let 
me  help  while  I  stay." 

So  the  broth  was  poured  forth  and  prepared, 
and  with  it  Arabella  disappeared.  She  return- 
ed in  a  few  minutes,  beckoned  to  Caroline,  and 
said,  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Come  in — say  you  forgive  him  I  Oh,  you 
need  not  fear  him  ;  a  babe  could  not  fear  him 
now !" 

Caroline  followed  Arabella  into  the  sick-room. 
No  untidiness  there  ;  all  so  carefully,  thought- 
fully an-anged.  A  pleasant  room,  too — with 
windows  looking  full  on  the  sunniest  side  of  the 
Vale  of  Health ;  the  hearth  so  cheerily  clear, 
swept  so  clean — the  very  ashes  out  of  sight; 
flowers — costly  exotics — on  the  table,  on  the 
mantle-piece  ;  the  couch  drawn  toward  the  win- 
dow ;  and  on  that  couch,  in  the  gay  rich  dress- 
ing-gown of  foi-mer  days,  warm  coverlets  heaped 
on  the  feet, snow-white  pillows proppingthehead, 
lay  what  at  first  seemed  a  vague,  undistinguish- 
able  mass — lay,  what,  as  the  step  advanced,  and 
the  eye  became  more  accurately  searching,  grew 
into  Jasper  Losely. 

Y'es !  there,  too  weak  indeed  for  a  babe  to 
fear,  lay  all  that  was  left  of  the  Strong  Man ! 
No  enemy  but  himself  had  brought  him  thus 
low — spendthrift,  and  swindler,  and  robber  of 
his  own  priceless  treasures— Health  and  Strength 
— those  grand  rent-rolls  of  joy  which  Nature 
had  made  his  inheritance.  As  a  tree  that  is 
crumbling  to  dust  under  the  gnarls  of  its  bark, 
seems,  the  moment  ere  it  falls,  proof  against 
time  and  the  tempest ; — so,  within  all  decayed, 
stood  that  image  of  strength— so,  air  scarcely 
stirring,  it  fell.  "  And  the  pitcher  was  broken 
at  the  fountain ;  and  the  wheel  was  broken  at 
the  cistern.  Vanity  of  vanities,  saith  the  Preach- 
er." 

Jasper  turned  his  dull  eye  toward  Caroline, 
as  she  came  softly  to  his  side,  and  looked  at  her 
with  a  piteous  gaze.  The  stroke  that  had  shat- 
tered the  form  had  spared  the  face  ;  and  illness 
and  compulsorv"  abstinence  from  habitual  stim- 
ulants had  taken  from  the  aspect  much  of  the 
coarseness — whether  of  shape  or  color — that  of 
late  years  had  disfigured  its  outline — and  sup- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


303 


plied  the  delicacy  that  ends  with  youth  by  the 
delicacy  that  comes  with  the  approach  of  death. 
So  that,  in  no  small  degree,  the  beauty  which  had 
been  to  him  so  fatal  a  gift,  was  once  more  visi- 
ble— the  features  growing  again  distinct,  as  wan- 
ness succeeded  to  tiie  hues  of  intemperance,  and 
emaciation  to  the  bloated  cheeks  and  swollen 
muscle.  The  goddess  whose  boons  adorn  the 
outward  shell  of  the  human  spirit,  came  back 
to  her  favorite's  death-couch  as  she  had  come 
to  the  cradle — not  now  as  the  Venus  Erycina, 
goddess  of  Smile  and  Jest,  but  as  the  warning 
Venus  Libitina,  the  goddess  of  Doom  and  the 
Funeral. 

"  I'm  a  very  poor  creature,"  said  Jasper,  after 
a  pause.  "I  can't  rise — I  can't  move  without 
help.  Very  strange  I — supernatural  I  She  al- 
ways said  that  if  I  raised  my  hand  against  her, 
it  would  fall  palsied !"  He  turned  his  eye  to- 
ward Arabella  with  a  glare  of  angry  ten-or. 
"  She  is  a  witch  I"  he  said,  and  buried  his  face 
in  the  pillow.  Tears  rolled  down  the  grim  wo- 
man's cheek. 

Lady  Montfokt.  "  She  is  rather  your  good 
ministering  spirit.  Do  not  be  unkiiid  to  her. 
Over  her  you  have  more  power  now  than  you  had 
when  you  were  well  and  strong.  She  lives  but 
to  ser\e  you;  command  her  gently." 

Jasper  was  not  proof  against  that  sweet  voice. 
With  difficulty  he  wrenched  himself  round,  and 
again  looked  long  at  Caroline  Montfort,  as  if 
the  sight  did  him  good ;  then  he  made  a  sign 
to  Arabella,  who  flev.-  to  his  side  and  raised 
him. 

"I  have  been  a  sad  dog,"  he  said,  with  a 
mournful  attempt  at  the  old  rollicking  tone — 
"a  very  sad  dog — in  short,  a  villain!  But  all 
ladies  are  indulgent  to  villains — in  fact,  prefer 
them.  Never  knew  a  lady  who  could  endure  '  a 
good  young  man' — never !  So  I  am  sure  jon 
■will  forgive  me,  miss — ma'am.  Who  is  this 
lady?  when  it  comes  to  forgiveness,  there  are 
so  many  of  them  !  Oh,  I  remember  now — your 
ladyship  will  forgive  me — 'tis  all  down  in  black 
and  white  what  I've  done — Bella  has  it.  You 
see  this  hand — I  can  write  with  this  hand — this 
is  not  paralyzed.  This  is  not  the  hand  I  tried 
to  raise  against  her.  But,  basta,  hasta  !  where 
was  I  ?  ]\Iy  poor  head  1 — I  know  what  it  is  to 
have  a  head  now ! — ache,  ache  .' — boom,  boom 
— weight,  weight — heavy  as  a  church  bell— hol- 
low as  a  church  bell — noisy  as  a  church  bell ! 
Brandy !  give  me  brandy,  you  witch  \ — I  mean 
Bella,  good  Bella,  give  me  "brandy  1" 

"Not  yet,  Jasper  dear.  You  are  to  have  it 
every  third  hour;  it  is  not  time  yet,  dearest; 
you  must  attend  to  the  doctor,  and  try  to  get 
well  and  recover  your  strength.  You  remember 
I  told  you  how  kind  Lady  Montfort  had  been 
to  your  father,  and  you  wished  to  see  and  thank 
her." 

"  ]VIy  father — my  poor,  poor  father !  You've 
been  kind  to  him  !  Bless  you,  bless  you  !  And 
you  will  see  him  ?  I  want  his  pardon  before  I 
die.     Don't  forget,  and — and — " 

"Poor  Sophy!"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 

"Ah  yes!  But  she's  well  off  now,  you  tell 
me.  I  can't  think  I  have  injured  her.  And 
really  girls  and  women  are  intended  to  be  a  lit- 
tle useful  to  one.     Basta,  Basta.'" 

"  ]\Ir.  Darrell— " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !     I  forgive  him,  or  he  forgives 


me  ;  settle  it  as  you  like.     But  my  father's  par- 
don, Ladv  ^lontfort,  vou  will  get  me  that .'" 

"  I  will",  I  will." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  and  smiled.  Ara- 
bella gently  let  his  head  fall  back  upon  the 
pillow. 

"Throw  a  handkerchief  over  my  face,"  he 
said,  feebly,  "and  leave  me;  but  be  in  call;  I 
feel  sleepy."  His  eyes  closed ;  he  seemed  asleep 
even  before  they  stole  from  the  room. 

"You  will  bring  his  father  to  him?"  said 
Arabella,  when  she  and  Lady  Montfort  were 
again  alone.  "In  this  packet  is  Jasper's  con- 
fession of  the  robbery  for  which  that  poor  old 
man  suffered.  I  never  knew  of  that  before. 
But  you  see  how  mild  he  is  now! — how  his 
heart  is  changed;  it  is  indeed  changed  more 
than  he  shows;  only  you  have  seen  him  at  the 
worst — his  mind  wanders  a  little  to-day ;  it  does 
sometimes.  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  I 
once  heard  a  preacher,  not  many  months  ago ; 
he  affected  me  as  no  preacher  ever  did  before. 
I  was  told  that  he  was  Colonel  Morley's  nephew. 
Will  you  ask  Colonel  Morley  to  persuade  him 
to  come  to  Jasper  ?" 

' '  My  cousin,  George  Morley !  He  shall  come, 
I  promise  you ;  so  shall  your  poor  patient's  for- 
giving father.     Is  there  more  I  can  do?" 

"Xo.  Explain  to  Mr.  Darrell  the  reason 
why  I  have  so  long  delayed  sending  to  him  the 
communication  which  he  will  find  in  the  jjacket 
I  have  given  to  you,  and  which  you  will  first 
open,  reading  the  contents  yourself — a  part  of 
them,  at  least,  in  Jasper's  attestation  of  his 
stratagem  to  break  off  your  marriage  with  Mr. 
Darrell,  may  yet  be  of  some  value  to  you — you 
had  better  also  show  the  papers  to  Colonel  Mor- 
ley— he  may  complete  the  task — I  had  meant, 
on  returning  to  England,  or  before  seeing  ^Ir. 
Darrell,  to  make  the  inquiries  which  you  will 
see  are  still  necessary.  But  then  came'this  ter- 
rible affliction!  I  have  been  able  to  tiiink  of 
nothing  else  but  Jasper — terrible  to  quit  the 
house  which  contains  him  for  an  hour — only 
when  Dr.  F.  told  me  that  he  was  attending  you, 
that  you  were  ill  and  suffering,  I  resolved  to 
add  to  this  packet  Jasper's  own  confession.  Ah, 
and  he  gave  it  so  readily,  and  went  yesterday 
through  the  fatigue  of  writing  with  such  good 
heart.  I  tell  you  that  there  is  a  change  within 
him;  there is — there  is !  Well,  well — I  resolved 
to  give  you  the  packet  to  transmit  to  Mr.  Dar- 
rell ;  for  somehow  or  other  I  connected  your 
illness  with  your  visit  to  him  at  Fawley !" 

"My  visit  to  Mi.  Darrell!" 

"Jasper  saw  j'ou  as  your  carriage  drove  from 
the  park  gate,  not  very  many  days  since.  Ah, 
you  change  color!  You  have  wronged  that 
man;  repair  the  wrong;  you  have  the  power!" 

"Alas!  no,"  murmured  Caroline,  "I  have 
not  the  power." 

"Pooh — he  loves  you  still.  You  are  not  one 
of  those  whom  men  "forget." 

Caroline  was  silent,  but  involuntarily  she  low- 
ered her  vail.  In  an  instant  the  acute  sense  of 
the  grim  woman  detected  the  truth. 

"Ah!  Pride — pride  in  both,"  she  said.  "I 
understand — I  dare  not  blame  Am  here.  But 
you — you  were  the  injurer;  you  have  no  right 
to  pride ;  you  will  see  him  again  !" 

"iSTo — never — never!"  faltered  Caroline,  with 
accents  scarcely  audible  under  her  vail. 


304 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


Ai-abella  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  Lady 
Montfort  rose  hastily  to  depart. 

"You  will  see  him  again,  I  tell  you;"  and 
Arabella  then,  following  her  to  the  door — 

"  Stay;  do  you  think  he  will  die?" 

"Good  Heavens!  Mr.  Darrell?" 

"No,  no — Jasper  Losely  !" 

"  I  hope  not.     What  does  Dr.  F.  say  ?" 

"He  will  not  tell  me.  But  it  is  not  the  pa- 
ralysis alone ;  he  might  recover  from  that — so 
young  still.  There  are  other  symptoms ;  that 
dreadful  habit  of  stimulants.  He  sinks  if  he 
has  them  not — they  hasten  death  if  he  has. 
But — but — but — He  is  mine,  and  mine  only, 

TO  THE  GKAVB  NOW !" 


CHAPTER  XL 

''  The  Crisis — Public  and  Private. 

Lady  Montfort's  carriage  stopjjed  at  Col- 
onel Morley's  door  just  as  Carr  Vipont  was 
coming  out.  Carr,  catching  sight  of  her,  bus- 
tled up  to  the  carriage  Avindow. 

"My  dear  Lady  Montfort! — not  seen  you  for 
an  age !  What  times  we  live  in !  How  sud- 
denly The  Crisis  has  come  upon  us !  Sad  loss 
in  poor  dear  Montfort ;  no  wonder  you  mourn 
for  him!  Had  his  failings,  true — who  is  not 
mortal  ? — but  always  voted  right ;  always  to  be 
relied  on  in  times  of  Crisis  !  But  this  crotch- 
ety fellow,  who  has  so  unluckily,  for  all  but 
himself,  walked  into  that  property,  is  the  loosest 
fish  !  And  what  is  a  House  divided  against  it- 
self! Never  was  the  Constitution  in  such  peril ! 
— I  say  it  deliberately ! — and  here  is  the  Head 
of  the  Viponts  humming  and  haaing,  and  ask- 
ing whether  Guy  Darrell  will  join  the  Cabinet. 
And  if  Guy  Darrell  will  not,  we  have  no  more 
chance  of  the  Montfort  interest  than  if  we  were 
Peep-o'-Day  Boys.  But  excuse  me — I  must  be 
oft";  every  moment  is  precious  in  times  of  Cri- 
sis. Think,  if  we  can't  form  a  Cabinet  by  to- 
morrow night — only  think  what  may  happen  ; 
the  other  fellows  will  come  in,  and  then — the 
Deluge  !" 

Carr  is  gone  to  find  mops  and  Dame  Parting- 
tons  to  stave  oft'  the  Deluge.  Colonel  Morley 
has  obeyed  Lady  Montfort's  summons,  and  has 
entered  the  carriage.  Before  she  can  speak, 
however,  he  has  rushed  into  the  subject  of  which 
he  himself  is  full.  "  Only  think — I  knew  it 
would  be  so  when  the  moment  came ;  all  de- 
pends upon  Guy  Darrell !  Montfort,  who  seems 
always  in  a  fright  lest  a  newspaper  should  fall 
on  his  head  and  crush  him,  says  that  if  Darrell, 
whom  he  chooses  to  favor  just  because  the  news- 
papers do,  declines  to  join,  the  newspapers  will 
say  the  Crisis  is  a  job!  Fancy! — a  job — the 
Crisis  !  Lord  Mowbray  de  I'Arco  and  Sir  Jo- 
siah  Snodge,  who  are  both  necessary  to  a  united 
government,  but  who  unluckily  detest  each  oth- 
er, refuse  to  sit  in  the  same  Cabinet,  unless 
Darrell  sit  between — to  save  them,  I  suppose, 
from  the  fate  of  the  cats  of  Kilkenny.  Sir  John 
Cautly,  our  crack  county  member,  declares  that 
if  Darrell  does  not  come  in,  'tis  because  the 
Crisis  is  going  too  far!  Harry  Bold,  our  most 
popular  speaker,  says,  if  Darrell  stay  out,  'tis  a 
sign  that  the  Crisis  is  a  retrograde  movement ! 
In  short,  without  Darrell,  the  Crisis  will  be  a 


failure,  and  the  House  of  Vipont  smashed — 
Lady  Montfort — smashed  !  I  sent  a  telegram 
(oh,  that  I  should  live  to  see  such  a  word  intro- 
duced into  the  English  language ! — but,  as  Carr 
says,  what  times  these  are !)  to  Fawley  this 
morning,  entreating  Guy  to  come  up  to  town  at 
once.  He  answers  by  a  line  from  Horace,  which 
means,  '  that  he  will  see  me  shot  first.'  I  must 
go  down  to  him ;  only  waiting  to  know  the  re- 
sult of  certain  negotiations  as  to  measures.  I 
have  but  one  hope.  There  is  a  measure  which 
Darrell  always  privately  advocated — which  he 
thoroughly  understands — which,  placed  in  his 
hands,  would  be  triumjjhantly  carried ;  one  of 
those  measures.  Lady  Montfort,  which,  if  de- 
fective, shipwreck  a  government;  if  framed  as 
Guy  Darrell  could  frame  it,  immortalize  the 
minister  who  concocts  and  carries  them.  This 
is  all  that  Darrell  needs  to  complete  his  fame 
and  career.  This  is  at  length  an  occasion  to 
secure  a  durable  name  in  the  history  of  his 
country;  let  him  reject  it,  and  I  shall  tell  him 
frankly  that  his  life  has  been  but  a  brilliant 
failure.  Since  he  has  not  a  seat  in  Parliament, 
and  usage  requires  the  actual  possession  of  that 
qualification  for  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet,  we  must 
lose  his  voice  in  the  Commons.  But  we  can 
arrange  that;  for  if  Darrell  will  but  join  the 
government  and  go  to  the  Lords,  Sir  Josiah 
Snodge,  who  has  a  great  deal  of  voice  and  a 
great  deal  of  jealousy,  will  join  too — head  the 
Vipont  interests  in  the  Commons — and  speak 
to  the  country — speak  every  night — and  all 
night  too,  if  required.  Yes  !  Darrell  must  take 
the  peerage — devote  himself  for  a  year  or  two 
to  this  great  measure — to  the  consolidation  of 
his  fame — to  the  redemption  of  the  House  of 
Vipont — and  to  the  Salvation  of  the  Empire; 
and  then,  if  he  please,  'solve  senescentem' — 
that  is,  he  may  retire  from  harness,  and  browse 
upon  laurels  for  the  rest  of  his  days  !" 

Colonel  Morley  delivered  himself  of  this  long 
address  without  interruption  from  a  listener  in- 
terested in  every  word  that  related  to  Guy  Dar- 
rell, and  in  every  hope  that  could  reunite  hira 
to  the  healthful  activities  of  life. 

It  was  now  Lady  Montfort's  turn  to  speak; 
though,  after  subjects  so  momentous  as  the 
Crisis  and  its  speculative  consequences,  private 
aft"airs,  relating  to  a  poor  little  girl  like  Sophy — 
nay,  the  mere  private  aff'airs  of  Darrell  himself, 
seemed  a  pitiful  bathos.  Lady  Montfort,  how- 
ever, after  a  few  words  of  womanly  comment 
upon  the  only  part  of  the  Colonel's  discourse 
which  touched  her  heart,  hastened  on  to  de- 
scribe her  interview  with  Arabella,  and  the 
melancholy  condition  of  Darrell's  once  formi- 
dable son-in-law.  For  that  last  the  Colonel 
evinced  no  more  compassionate  feeling  than 
any  true  Englishman,  at  the  time  I  am  writing, 
would  demonstrate  for  a  murderous  Sepoy  tied 
to  the  mouth  of  a  cannon. 

"A  very  good  riddance!"  said  the  Colonel, 
dryly.  "Great  relief  to  Darrell,  and  to  every 
one  else  whom  that  monster  tormented  and 
preyed  on  ;  and  with  his  life  will  vanish  the 
only  remaining  obstacle  in  righting  poor  Willy's 
good  name.  I  hope  to  live  to  collect,  from  all 
parts  of  the  country,  Willy's  old  friends,  and 
give  them  a  supper,  at  which  I  suppose  I  must 
not  get  drunk,  though  I  should  rather  like  it 
than  not!     But  I  interrupt  you ;  go  on." 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT  ? 


305 


Lady  Montfort  proceeded  to  state  the  sub- 
stance of  the  papers  she  had  perused  in  refer- 
ence to  the  mystery  which  had  been  the  cause 
of  so  much  disquietude  and  bitterness. 

The  Colonel  stretched  out  his  hand  eagerly 
for  the  documents  thus  quoted.  He  hurried  his 
eye  rapidly  over  the  contents  of  the  first  paper 
he  lit  on,  and  then  said,  pulling  out  his  watch, 
"  Well,  I  hare  half  an  hour  yet  to  spare  in  dis- 
cussing these  matters  with  you — may  I  order 
your  coachman  to  drive  round  the  Regent's 
Park  ? — better  than  keeping  it  thus  at  my  door 
- — with  four  old  maids  for  opposite  neighbors." 
The  order  was  given,  and  the  Colonel  again  re- 
turned to  the  papers.  Suddenly  he  looked  up 
• — looked  full  into  Lady  Montfort's  face,  with  a 
thoughtful,  searching  gaze,  which  made  her 
drop  her  own  eyes;  and  she  saw  that  he  had 
been  reading  Jasper's  confession,  relating  to  his 
device  for  breaking  off  her  engagement  to  Dar- 
rell,  which  in  her  hurry  and  excitement  she  had 
neglected  to  abstract  from  the  other  documents. 
"  Oh,  not  that  paper — you  are  not  to  read  that,'' 
she  cried,  quickly  covering  the  writing  with  her 
hand. 

"Too  late,  my  dear  cousin.  I  have  read  it. 
All  is  now  clear.  Lionel  was  right ;  and  I  was 
right,  too,  in  my  convictions  though  Darrell  put 
so  coolly  aside  my  questions  when  I  was  last  at 
Fawley.  I  am  justified  now  in  all  the  pains  I 
took  to  secure  Lionel's  marriage — in  the  cun- 
ning cruelty  of  my  letter  to  George !  Know, 
Lady  2\Iontfort,  that  if  Lionel  had  sacrificed  his 
happiness  to  respect  for  Guy's  ancestor- worship, 
Guy  Darrell  would  have  held  himself  bound  in 
honor  never  to  marry  again.  He  told  me  so — 
told  me  he  should  be  a  cheat  if  he  took  any  step 
to  rob  one  from  whom  he  had  exacted  such  an 
off"ering — of  the  name,  and  the  heritage  for 
which  the  offering  had  been  made.  And  I  then 
resolved  that  County  Guy  should  not  thus  ir- 
revocably shut  the  door  on  his  own  happiness ! 
Lady  Montfort,  you  know  that  this  man  loves 
you — as,  verily,  I  believe,  never  man  in  our 
cold  century  loved  woman — through  desertion 
— through  change — amidst  grief — amidst  resent- 
ment— despite  pride ;  dead  to  all  other  love — 
shrinking  from  all  other  ties — on,  constant  on 
— carrying  in  the  depth  of  his  soul  to  the  verge 
of  age,  secret  and  locked  up,  the  hopeless  pas- 
sion of  his  manhood.  Do  you  not  see  that  it  is 
through  you,  and  you  alone,  that  Guy  Darrell 
has  for  seventeen  years  been  lost  to  the  country 
he  was  intended  "to  serve  and  to  adorn  ?  Do 
you  not  feel  that  if  he  now  reject  this  last  op- 
portunity to  redeem  years  so  wasted,  and  achieve 
a  fame  that  may  indeed  link  his  Ancestral  Name 
to  the  honors  of  Posterity,  you,  and  you  alone, 
are  the  cause?" 

"Alas — alas — but  what  can  I  do?" 

"  Do ! — ay,  true.  The  poor  fellow  is  old  now ; 
you  can  not  care  for  him  I — you  still  young,  and 
so  unluckily  beautiful! — you,  for  whom  young 
princes  might  vie.  True;  you  can  have  no 
feeling  for  Guy  Darrell,  except  pity!" 

"Fitij!  I  hate  the  word!"  cried  Lady  Mont- 
fort, with  as  much  petulance  as  if  she  had  still 
been  the  wayward  lively  Caroline  of  old. 

Again  the  Man  of  the  World  directed  toward 
her  face  his  shrewd  eyes,  and  dropped  out, 
"  See  him  I" 

"But  I  ha"\'e  seen  him.     You  remember  I 
U 


went    to    plead    for   Lionel    and    Sophy  —  in 
vain !" 

"Not  in  vain.  George  Avrites  me  word  that 
he  has  informed  you  of  DarrelFs  consent  to 
their  marriage.  And  I  am  much  mistaken  if 
his  greatest  consolation  in  the  pang  that  con- 
sent must  have  cost  him  is  not  the  thought  that 
it  relieves  you  from  the  sorrow  and  remorse  his 
refusal  had  occasioned  to  you.  Ah!  there  is 
but  one  person  who  can  restore  Dan-ell  to  the 
world — and  that  is  yourself!" 

Lady  Montfort  shook  her  head  drearily. 
'"If  I  had  but  an  excuse — with  dignity— with 
self-respect — to — to — " 

"An  excuse!  You  have  an  absolute  neces- 
sity to  communicate  with  DaiTell.  You  have 
to  give  to  him  these  documents — to  explain  how 
you  came  by  them.  Sophy  is  with  him ;  you 
are  bound  to  see  her  on  a  subject  of  such  vital 
importance  to  herself.  Scruples  of  prudervM 
You,  Caroline  Lyndsay,  the  friend  of  his  daugh- 
ter— you  whose  childhood  was  reared  in  his 
very  house — you  whose  mother  owed  to  him 
such  obligations — you  to  scruple  in  being  the 
first  to  acquaint  him  with  information  afl^ecting 
him  so  nearly !  And  why,  forsooth  ?  Because, 
ages  ago,  your  hand  was,  it  seems,  engaged  to 
him,  and  you  were  deceived  by  false  appear- 
ances, like  a  silly  young  girl  as  you  were." 

Again  Lady  Moiotfort  shook  her  head  dreari- 
ly— drearily. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Colonel,  changing  his  tone, 
"  I  will  grant  that  those  former  ties  can't  be  re- 
newed now.  The  man  now  is  as  old  as  the  hills, 
and  you  had  no  right  to  expect  that  he  would 
have  suffered  so  much  at  being  veiy  naturally 
jilted  for  a  handsome  young  Marquis." 

"Cease,  Sir,  cease  !"  cried  Caroline,  angrily. 
The  Colonel  coolly  persisted. 

"  I  see  now  that  such  nuptials  are  out  of  the 
question.     But  has  the  world  come  to  such  a 
pass  that  one  can  never  at  any  age  have  a  friend 
in  a  lady  unless  she  marry  him?     Scruple  to 
accompany    me — me,    your   cousin — me,   your 
nearest    sur^-iving    relation — in  order   to  take 
back  the  young  lady  you  have  virtually  adopt- 
ed!— scruple  to  trust  yourself  for  half 'an  hour 
to  that    tumble-down    old   Fawley!     Are  you 
afraid  that  the  gossips  will  say  yon,  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Montfort,  are  running  after  a  gloomv 
old  widower,  and  scheming  to  be  mistress  of  a 
mansion  more  like  a  ghost-trap  than  a  residence 
for  civilized  beings  ?    Or  are  you  afraid  that  Guy 
Darrell  will  be  fool  and  fop  enough  to  think  you 
are  come  to  force  on  him  your  hand?     Pooh, 
pooh !     Such  scruples  would  be  in  place  if  j-ou 
were  a  portionless,  forward  girl ;  or  if  he  Mere 
a  conceited  young  puppy,  or  even  a  suspicious 
old  roue.     But  Guy  Darrell — a  man  of  his  sta- 
tion, his  character,  his  years !    And  }ou,  cousin 
Caroline,  what  are  you?     Surely,  lifted  above 
all  such  pitiful  crotchets  by  a  rank  among  the 
loftiest  gentlewomen  of  England; — ample  for- 
tune, a  beauty  that  in  itself  is  rank  and  wealth  : 
and,  above  all,  a  character  that  has  passed  with 
venerated  purity  through  that  ordeal  in  which 
every  eye  seeks  a  spot,  every  ear  invites  a'scan- 
dal.     But  as  you  will.     All  I  say  is,  that  Dar- 
rell's  future  may  be  in  your  hands  ;  that,  aftc  r 
to-morrow,  the  occasion  to  give  at  least  noble 
occupation  and  lasting  renown  to  a  mind  that  is 
devouring  itself  and  stifling  its  genius,  may  be 


306 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


irrevocably  lost ;  aud  that  I  do  believe,  if  you 
said  to-morrow  to  Guy  Darrell, '  You  i-efused  to 
hear  rlie  when  I  pleaded  for  wliat  you  thought  a 
disgrace  to  your  name,  and  yet  even  that  you 
at  last  conceded  to  the  voice  of  affection  as  if  of 
duty — now  hear  me  when  I  plead  by  the  side 
of  your  oldest  friend  on  behalf  of  your  honor, 
and  in  the  name  of  your  forefathers' — if  tou  say 
THAT,  he  is  won  to  his  country.  You  will  have 
repaired  a  wrong ;  and,  pray,  will  you  have  com- 
promised your  dignity  ?" 

Caroline  had  recoiled  into  the  corner  of  the 
carriage,  her  mantle  close  drawn  round  her 
breast,  her  vail  lowered ;  but  no  sheltering  garb 
or  vail  could  conceal  her  agitation. 

The  Colonel  pulled  the  check-string.  "No- 
thing so  natural ;  you  are  the  widow  of  the 
Head  of  the  House  of  Vipont.  Y'ou  are,  or 
ought  to  be,  deeply  interested  in  its  fate.  An 
awful  Ckisis,  long  expected,  has  occurred.  The 
House  trembles.  A  connection  of  that  House 
can  render  it  an  invaluable  service ;  that  con- 
nection is  the  man  at  whose  hearth  your  child- 
hood was  reared ;  and  you  go  with  me — me, 
who  am  known  to  be  moving  heaven  and  earth 
for  every  vote  that  the  House  can  secure,  to 
canvass  this  wavering  connection  for  his  sup- 
port and  assistance.  Nothing,  I  say,  so  natu- 
ral ;  and  yet  you  scruple  to  serve  the  House  of 
Vipont — to  save  your  country  !  Y'ou  may  well 
be  agitated.  I  leave  you  to  your  own  reflec- 
tions. ]My  time  runs  short ;  I  will  get  out  here. 
Trust  me  with  these  documents.  I  will  see  to 
the  rest  of  this  long  painful  subject.  I  will  send 
a  special  report  to  you  this  evening,  and  you 
will  reply  by  a  single  line  to  the  prayer  I  have 
ventured  to  address  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XU.,  AND  LAST. 

In  which  the  Author  endeavors,  to  the  best  of  his  abili- 
ty, to  give  a  final  reply  to  the  question,  "What  will 
lie  do  with  it?" 

Scene — The  banks  of  the  lake  at  Fawley. 
George  is  lending  his  arm  to  Waife  ;  Sirs.  Mor- 
ley,  seated  on  her  camp-stool,  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  water,  is  putting  the  last  touch  to 
her  sketch  of  the  Manor  House  ;  Sir  Isaac,  re- 
clined, is  gravely  contemplating  the  swans ;  the 
doe,  bending  over  him,  occasionally  nibbles  his 
ear;  Fairthorn  has  uncomfortably  edged  liim- 
self  into  an  angle  of  the  building,  between  two 
buttresses,  and  is  watching,  with  malignant  eye, 
two  young  forms,  at  a  distance,  as  they  move 
slowly  yonder,  side  by  side,  yet  apart,  now  lost, 
now  emerging,  through  the  gaps  between  mel- 
ancholy leafless  trees.  Dai-rell,  having  just 
quitted  Waife  and  George,  to  whose  slow  pace 
he  can  ill  time  his  impatient  steps,  wonders  why 
Lionel,  whom,  on  arriving,  he  had,  ^ith  brief 
cordial  words,  referred  to  So])hy  for  his  fate,  has 
taken  more  than  an  hour  to  ask  a  simple  ques- 
tion, to  which  the  reply  may  be  pretty  mcII 
knowii  beforehand.  He  advances  toward  those 
melancholy  trees.  Suddenly  one  young  form 
leaves  the  other  —  comes  with  rapid  stride 
through  the  withered  fern.  Pale  as  death  Li- 
onel seizes  Guy  Darrell's  hand  with  convulsive 
grasp,  and  says,  ' '  I  must  leave  you,  Sir.     God 


bless  you !  All  is  over.  I  was  the  blindest  fool 
— she  refuses  me  !" 

"Refuses  you! — impossible!  For  what  rea- 
son?" 

"  She  can  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry," 
answered  Lionel,  with  a  quivering  lip,  and  an 
attempt  at  that  irony  in  which  all  extreme  an- 
guish, at  least  in  our  haughty  sex,  delights  to 
seek  refuge  or  disguise.  "  Likes  me  as  a  friend, 
a  brother,  and  so  forth,  but  nothing  more.  All 
a  mistake.  Sir — all,  except  your  manelous  kind- 
ness to  me — to  her — for  which  Heaven  ever  bless 
you  !" 

"Yes,  all  a  mistake  of  yom*  own,  foolish  boy," 
said  Darrell,  tenderly ;  and,  turning  sharp,  he 
saw  Sophy  hastening  by,  quickly  and  firmly, 
with  her  eyes  looking  sti-aightward — on  into 
space.     He  threw  himself  in  her  path. 

"  Tell  this  dull  kinsman  of  mine  that  '  faint 
heart  never  won  fair  lady.'  You  do  not  mean 
serious!}',  deliberately,  to  reject  a  heart  that  will 
never  be  faint  with  a  meaner  fear  than  that  of 
losing  you?" 

Poor  Sophy !  She  kept  her  blue  eyes  still 
on  the  cold  gray  space,  and  answered  by  some 
scarce  audible  words — words  which  in  every  age 
girls  intending  to  say  No  seem  to  learn  as  birds 
learn  their  song — no  one  knows  who  taught 
them,  but  they  are  ever  to  the  same  tune. 
"  Sensible  of  the  honor" — "  Grateful" — "  Some 
one  more  worthy" — etc.,  etc. 

Darrell  checked  this  embarrassed  jargon. 
"My  question,  young  lady,  is  solemn;  it  in- 
volves the  destiny  of  two  lives.  Do  voti  mean 
to  say  that  you  do  not  love  Lionel  Ilaughton 
well  enough  to  give  him  your  hand,  and  return 
the  true  faith  which  is  pledged  with  his  own?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lionel,  who  had  gained  the  side 
of  his  kinsman:  "yes,  that  is  it.  Oh  Sophy — 
Ay  or  No  ?" 

"No!"  fell  from  her  pale,  firm  lips — and  in 
a  moment  more  she  was  at  AYaife's  side,  and 
had  drawn  him  away  from  George.  "Grand- 
father, grandfather! — home,  home;  let  us  go 
home  at  once,  or  I  shall  die !" 

Darrell  has  kept  his  keen  sight  upon  her 
movements — upon  her  countenance.  He  sees 
her  gesture — her  look — as  she  now  clings  to 
her  grandfather.  The  blue  eyes  are  not  now 
coldly  fixed  on  level  air,  but  raised  upward,  as 
for  strength  from  above.  The  young  face  is 
sublime  with  its  woe,  and  with  its  resolve. 

"Noble  child!"  muttered  Darrell.  "I  think 
I  see  into  her  heart.  If  so,  poor  Lionel  indeed  ! 
My  pride  has  j-ielded,  hers  never  will !" 

Lionel,  meanwhile,  kept  beating  his  foot  on 
the  ground,  and  checking  indignantly  the  tears 
that  sought  to  gather  to  his  eyes.  Darrell  threw 
his  arm  round  tlie  young  man's  shoulder,  and 
led  him  gently,  slowly  away,  by  the  barbed 
thorn-tree — on  by  the  moss-grown  crags. 

Waife,  meanwhile,  is  bending  his  ear  to  So- 
phy's lip.  The  detestable  Fairthorn  emerges 
from  between  the  buttresses,  aud  shambles  up  to 
George,  thirsting  to  hear  his  hopes  confirmed, 
and  turning  his  face  back  to  smile  congratula- 
tion on  the  gloomy  old  house  that  he  thinks  he 
has  saved  from  the  lake. 

Sophy  has  at  last  convinced  Waife  that  his 
senses  do  not  deceive  him,  nor  hers  wander. 
She  has  said,  "Oh,  grandfather,  let  us  ever  hence- 
forth be  all  in  all  to  each  other.     You  are  not 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


307 


ashamed  of  me — I  am  so  proud  of  you.  But 
there  are  others  akin  to  me,  grandfather,  whom 
we  will  not  mention ;  and  vou  would  be  ashamed 
of  me  if  I  brought  disgrace  on  one  who  would 
confide  to  me  his  name,  his  honor ;  and  should 
I  be  as  proud  of  you,  if  you  asked  me  to  do 
it  ?" 

At  these  words  Waife  understands  all,  and 
he  has  not  an  argument  in  reply ;  and  he  suffers 
Sophy  to  lead  him  toward  the  house.  Yes,  they 
will  go  hence — yes,  there  shall  be  no  schemes 
of  marriage  I  They  had  nearly  reached  the 
door  when  the  door  itself  opened  violently,  and 
a  man  rushing  forth  caught  Sophy  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  forehead,  her  cheek,  with  a  heart- 
iness that  it  is  well  Lionel  did  not  witness  I 
Speechless  and  breathless  with  resentment,  So- 
phy struggled,  and  in  vain,  when  Waife,  seizing 
the  man  by  the  collar,  swung  him  away  with  a 
'•How  dare  you,  Sir?"  that  was  echoed  back 
from  the  hillocks — stmimoned  Sir  Isaac  at  full 
gallop  from  the  lake — scared  Fairthorn  back  to 
his  buttresses — roused  Mrs.  Morley  from  her 
sketch  —  and,  smiting  the  ears  of  Lionel  and 
Darrell,  hurried  them,  mechanically  as  it  were, 
to  the  spot  from  which  that  thunder-roll  had 
pealed. 

'•  How  dare  I  ?"  said  the  man,  resettling  the 
flow  of  his  disordSred  coat — "How  dare  I  kiss 
my  own  niece  ? — my  own  sister's  orphan  child  ? 
Venerable  Bandit,  I  have  a  much  better  right 
than  you  have.  Oh  my  dear  injured  Sophy,  to 
think  that  I  was  ashamed  of  your  poor  cotton 
print — to  think  that  to  your  pretty  face  I  have 
been  owing  fame  and  fortune — and  you,  you 
wandering  over  the  world — child  of  the  sister 
of  whose  beauty  I  was  so  proud — of  her  for 
whom,  alas  in  vain !  I  painted  Watteaus  and 
Greuzes  upon  screens  and  fans !"  Again  he 
clasped  her  to  his  breast ;  and  "Waife  this  time 
stood  mute,  and  Sophy  passive — for  the  man's 
tears  were  raining  upon  her  face,  and  washed 
away  eveiy  blush  of  shame  as  to  the  kiss  they 
hallowed. 

"But  where  is  my  old  friend  William  Lose- 
ly? — where  is  Willy?"  said  another  voice,  as  a 
tall  thin  personage  stepped  out  from  the  hall, 
and  looked  poor  Waife  unconsciously  in  the 
face. 

"Alban  Morley!"  faltered  Waife;  you  are 
bat  little  changed!" 

The  Colonel  looked  again,  and  in  the  elderly, 
lame,  one-eyed,  sober-looking  man,  recognized 
the  wild,  jovial  Willy,  who  had  tamed  the  most 
nnruly  fillies,  taken  the  most  frantic  leaps,  car- 
oled forth  the  blithest  song — madcap,  good  fel- 
low, frolicsome,  childlike  darling  of  gay  and 
grave,  young  and  old ! 

'"Eheu,  fiigaces,  Postnine,  Postume, 
Labuntur  anni,' " 

said  the  Colonel,  insensibly  imbibing  one  of 
those  Horatian  particles  that  were  ever  floating 
in  that  classic  atmosphere — to  Darrell  medic- 
inal, to  Fairthorn  morbific.  '•  Years  slide  away, 
Willy,  mutely  as  birds  skim  through  air;  but 
when  friend  meets  with  friend  lifter  absence, 
each  sees  the  print  of  their  crow's-feet  on  the 
face  of  the  other.  But  we  are  not  too  old  yet, 
Willy,  for  many  a  meet — at  the  fireside !  No- 
thing ebe  in  our  studs,  we  can  still  mount  our 
hobbies ;  and  thorough-bred  hobbies  contrive  to 
be  in  at  the  death.    But  yon  are  waiting  to 


learn  by  what  title  and  name  this  stranger  lavs 
claim  to  so  peerless  a  niece.  Know  then — Ah 
here  comes  Danell.  Guy  Darrell.  in  this  voun^ 
lady  you  will  welcome  the  grandchild  of  Sidney 
Branthwaite,  our  old  Eton  school  friend,  a  gen- 
tleman of  as  good  blood  as  any  in  the  land!" 

"Xone  better,"  cried  Fairthorn,  who  has 
sidled  himself  into  the  group;  "  there's  a  note 
on  the  Branthwaite  genealogy,  Sir,  in  vour  fa- 
ther's great  work  upon  '  Monumental  Brasses.' " 

"  Permit  me  to  conclude,  Mr.  Fairthorn,"  re- 
sumed the  Colonel ;  '•  Monumental  Brasses  are 
painful  subjects.  Yes  DaiTell,  yes  Lionel ;  this 
fair  creature,  whom  Lady  Mon'tfort  might  well 
desire  to  adopt,  is  the  daughter  of"  Arthur 
Branthwaite,  by  man-iage  with  the  sister  of 
Frank  Vance,  v.hose  name  I  shrewdly  suspect 
nations  will  prize,  and  whose  works  princes  will 
hoard,  when  many  a  long  genealogy,  all  blazoned 
in  azure  and  or,  will  have  left  not  a  scrap  for 
the  moths." 

"Ah !"  murmured  Lionel,  "  was  it  not  I,  So- 
phy, who  taught  you  to  love  your  father's  gen- 
ius I  Do  you  not  remember  how,  as  we  bent 
over  his  volume,  it  seemed  to  translate  to  us 
our  own  feelings  ? — to  draw  us  nearer  together? 
He  was  speaking  to  us  from  his  grave." 

Sophy  made  no  answer  ;  her  face  was  hidden 
on  the  breast  of  the  old  man,  to  whom  she  still 
clung  closer  and  closer. 

"  Is  it  so  ?  Is  it  certain  ?  Is  there  no  doubt 
that  she  is  the  child  of  these  honored  parents?" 
asked  Waife,  tremulously. 

'■  Xone,"  answered  Alban ;  "  we  bring  with 
us  proofs  that  will  clear  up  all  my  story." 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head  over  Sophv's 
fair  locks  for  a  moment ;  then  raised  it,  serene 
and  dignified ;  "  You  are  mine  for  a  moment 
yet,  Sophy,"  said  he. 

"  Yours  as  ever — more  fondly,  gratefully  than 
ever,"  cried  Sophy. 

"  There  is  but  one  man  to  whom  I  can  will- 
ingly yield  you.  Son  of  Charles  Haughton,  take 
my  treasure." 

"I  consent  to  that,"  cried  Vance,  "though 
I  am  put  aside  like  a  Remorseless  Baron.  And, 
Lionello  mio,  if  Frank  Vance  is  a  miser,  so 
much  the  better  for  his  niece." 

"  But,"  faltered  Lionel. 

Oh,  falter  not.  Gaze  into  those  eves ;  read 
that  blush  now  !  She  looks  coy,  not  "reluctant. 
She  bends  before  him — adorned  as  for  love,  by 
all  her  native  graces.  Air  seems  brightened  by 
her  bloom.  Xo  more  the  Outlaw-Child  of  Ig- 
nominy and  Fraud,  but  the  Starry  Daughter  of 
Poetry  a>t>  Art  I  Lo,  where  they  glide  away 
under  the  leafless,  melancholy  trees.  Leafless 
and  melancholy  I  Xo!  Verdure  and  blossom 
and  the  smile  of  spring  are  upon  even*  bough. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Alban,  "it  will  not  now 
break  Lionel's  heart  to  learn  that  not  an  hour 
before  I  left  London  I  heard  from  a  friend  at 
the  Horse  Guards  that  it  has  been  resolved  to 

substitute  the regiment  for  Lionel's ;  and 

it  will  be  for  some  time  yet,  I  suspect,  that  he 
must  submit  to  be  ingloriously  happy.  Come 
this  way,  George  ;  a  word  in  your  ear."  And 
Alban,  drawing  his  nephew  aside,  told  him  of 
Jasper's  state,  and  of  Arabella's  request.  "  Xot 
a  word  to-day  on  these  mournful  topics  to  poor 
Willy.  To-day  let  nothing  add  to  his  pain  to 
have  lost  a  grandchild,  or  dim  his  consolation 


308 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


in  the  happiness  and  security  his  Sophy  gains  i 
in  that  loss.  But  to-morrow  you  will  go  and 
see  this  stricken-down  sinner,  and  prepare  the 
father  for  the  worst.  I  made  a  point  of  seeing 
Dr.  F.  last  night.  He  gives  Jasper  but  a  few 
weeks.  He  compares  him  to  a  mountain,  not 
merely  shattered  by  an  earthquake,  but  burned 
out  by  its  own  inward  fires." 

"A  few  weeks  only,"  sighed  Greorge.  "  Well, 
Time,  that  seems  every  thing  to  man,  has  not 
even  an  existence  in  the  sight  of  God.  To  that 
old  man  I  owe  the  power  of  speech  to  argue,  to 
exhort,  and  to  comfort ;  he  was  training  me  to 
kneel  by  the  death-bed  of  his  son!''' 

"  You  believe,"  asked  the  Man  of  the  World, 
"  in  the  efficacy  of  a  death-bed  repentance, 
when  a  sinner  has  sinned  till  the  power  of  sin- 
ning be  gone?" 

"I  believe,"  replied  the  Preacher,  "that  in 
health  there  is  nothing  so  unsafe  as  trust  in  a 
death-bed  repentance ;  I  believe  that  on  the 
death-bed  it  can  not  bs  unsafe  to  repent!" 

Alban  looked  thoughtful,  and  George  turned 
to  rejoin  Waife,  to  whom  Vance  was  narrating 
the  discovery  of  Sophy's  parentage;  while  Fair- 
thorn,  as  he  listened,  drew  his  flute  from  his 
pocket,  and  began  screwing  it,  impatient  to  vent 
in  delicate  music  what  he  never  could  have  set 
into  words  for  his  blundering,  untunable  tongue. 
The  Colonel  joins  Darrell,  and  hastens  to  un- 
fold more  fully  the  story  which  Vance  is  re- 
citing to  Waife. 

Brief  as  it  can,  be  the  explanation  due  to  the 
reader. 

Vance's  sister  had  died  in  child-birth.  The 
poor  young  poet,  unfitted  to  cope  with  penury, 
his  sensitive  nature  combined  with  a  frame  that 
could  feebly  resist  the  strain  of  exhausting  emo- 
tions, disappointed  in  fame,  despairing  of  for- 
tune, dependent  for  bread  on  his  wife's  boyish 
brother,  and  harassed  by  petty  debts  in  a  for- 
eign land,  had  been  fast  pining  away,  even  be- 
fore an  affliction  to  which  all  the  rest  seemed 
as  naught.  With  that  atBiction  he  broke  down 
at  once,  and  died  a  few  days  after  his  wife, 
leaving  an  infant  not  a  week  old.  A  French 
female  singer,  of  some  repute  in  the  theatre?, 
and  making  a  provincial  tour,  was  lodging  in 
the  same  house  as  the  young  couple.  She  had 
that  compassionate  heart  which  is  more  com- 
mon than  prudence  or  very  strict  principle  with 
the  tribes  who  desert  the  prosaic  true  world  for 
the  light,  sparkling,  false  one.  She  had  assist- 
ed the  young  couple,  in  their  later  days,  witli 
purse  and  kind  offices  ;  had  been  present  at  the 
birth  of  the  infant — the  death  of  the  mother ; 
and  had  promised  Arthur  Branthwaite  that  she 
would  take  care  of  his  child,  until  she  could 
safely  convey  it  to  his  wife's  relations ;  while 
he  wept  to  own  that  they,  poor  as  himself,  must 
regard  such  a  charge  as  a  burden. 

The  singer  wrote  to  apprise  Mrs.  Vance  of 
the  death  of  her  daughter  and  son-in-law,  and 
the  birth  of  the  infant  whom  she  undertook 
shortly  to  send  to  England.  But  the  babe, 
whom,  meanwhile,  she  took  to  herself,  got  hold 
of  her  affections ;  with  that  yearning  for  chil- 
dren which  makes  so  remarkable  and  almost 
uniform  a  characteristic  of  French  women  (if 
themselves  childless)  in  the  wandering  Bohe- 
mian class  that  separates  them  from  the  ordi- 
nary  household  affections  never  dead   in  the 


heart  of  women  till  womanhood  itself  be  dead, 
the  singer  clung  to  the  orphan  little  one  to 
whom  she  was  for  the  moment  rendering  the 
cares  of  a  mother.  She  could  not  bear  to  part 
with  it ;  she  resolved  to  adopt  it  as  her  own. 
The  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Vance's  circumstances 
— the  idea  that  the  orphan,  to  herself  a  blessing, 
would  be  an  unwelcome  incumbrance  to  its  own 
relations — removed  every  scruple  from  a  mind 
unaccustomed  to  suffer  reflection  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  an  impulse.  She  wrote  word  to  Mrs. 
Vance  that  the  child  was  dead.  She  trusted 
that  her  letter  would  suffice,  without  other  evi- 
dence, to  relations  so  poor,  and  who  could  have 
no  suspicion  of  any  interest  to  deceive  them. 
Her  trust  was  well  founded.  Mrs.  Vance  and 
the  boy  Frank,  whose  full  confidence  and  grat- 
itude had  been  already  secured  to  their  corre- 
spondent for  her  kind  offices  to  the  young  par- 
ents, accepted,  without  a  demur  or  a  question, 
the  news  that  the  infant  was  no  more.  The 
singer  moved  on  to  the  next  town  at  which  she 
was  professionally  engaged.  The  infant,  hith- 
erto brought  up  by  hand,  became  ailing.  The 
medical  adriser  called  in  recommended  the  nat- 
ural food,  and  found,  in  a  village  close  by,  the 
nurse  to  whom,  a  little  time  before,  Jasper  Lose- 
ly  had  consigned  his  own  daughter.  The  latter 
died ;  the  nurse  then  removed  to  Paris,  to  reside 
with  the  singer,  who  had  obtained  a  lucrative 
appointment  at  one  of  the  metropolitan  thea- 
tres. In  less  than  two  years  the  singer  herself 
fell  a  victim  to  a  prevailing  epidemic.  She  had 
lived  without  thought  of  the  morrow ;  her  debts 
exceeded  her  means  ;  her  effects  were  sold. 
The  nurse,  who  had  meanwhile  become  a  wid- 
ow, came  for  advice  and  refuge  to  her  sister, 
was  in  the  service  of  Gabrielle  Desmarets.  Ga- 
brielle  being  naturally  appealed  to,  saw  the  in- 
fant, heard  the  story,  looked  into  the  statement 
which,  by  way  of  confession,  the  singer  had 
dra^^"n  up,  and  signed,  in  a  notary's  presence, 
before  she  died ;  looked  into  the  letters  from 
Mrs.  Vance,  and  the  school-boy  scrawls  from 
Frank,  both  to  the  singer  and  to  the  child's  par- 
ents, which  the  actress  had  carefully  presened ; 
convinced  herself  of  the  poverty  and  obscurity 
of  the  infant's  natural  guardians  and  next  of 
kin  ;  and  said  to  Jasper,  who  was  just  dissipat- 
ing the  fortune  handed  over  to  him  as  survivor 
of  his  wife  and  child,  "There  is  what,  if  well 
managed,  may  retain  your  hold  on  a  rich  father- 
in-law,  when  all  else  has  failed.  You  have  but 
to  say  that  this  infant  is  his  grandchild ;  the 
nurse  we  can  easily  bribe,  or  persuade  to  con- 
firm the  tale.  I,  whom  he  already  knows  as  that 
respectable  baroness,  your  Matilda's  friend,  can 
give  to  the  story  some  probable  touches.  The 
lone,  childless  man  must  rejoice  to  think  that  a 
tie  is  left  to  him.  The  infant  is  exquisitely 
pretty ;  her  face  will  plead  for  her.  His  heart 
will  favor  the  idea  too  much  to  make  him  very 
rigorous  in  his  investigations.  Take  the  infant. 
Doubtless  in  your  own  country  you  can  find 
some  one  to  rear  it  at  little  or  no  expense,  un- 
til the  time  come  for  appeal  to  your  father-in- 
law,  when  no  other  claim  on  his  purse  remains." 
Jasper  assented  with  the  insouciant  docility  bj 
which  he  always  acknowledged  Gabrielle's  as- 
tuter  intellect.  He  saw  the  nurse;  it  was  clear 
that  she  had  nothing  to  gain  by  taking  the  child 
to  English  relations  so  poor.     They  might  re- 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


309 


fuse  to  believe  her,  and  certainly  could  not  re- 
ward. To  rid  herself  of  the  infant,  and  obtain 
the  means  to  return  to  her  native  village  with  a 
few  hundred  francs  in  her  purse,  there  was  no 
promise  she  was  not  willing  to  make,  no  story 
she  was  too  honest  to  tell,  no  paper  she  was  too 
timid  to  sign.  Jasper  was  going  to  London  on 
some  adventure  of  his  own.  He  took  the  infant 
— chanced  on  Arabella  ; — the  reader  knows  the 
rest.  The  indifference  ever  manifested  by  Jas- 
per to  a  child  not  his  own — the  hardness  with 
which  he  had  contemplated  and  planned  his  fa- 
ther's separation  from  one  whom  he  had  im- 
posed by  false  pretexts  on  the  old  man's  love, 
and  whom  he  only  regarded  as  an  alien  encum- 
brance upon  the  scanty  means  of  her  deluded 
protector — the  fitful  and  desultory  mode  in 
which  (when,  contrary  to  the  reasonings  which 
Gabrielle  had  based  upon  a  very  large  experi- 
ence of  the  credulities  of  human  nature  in  gen- 
eral, but  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  nature  pecu- 
liar to  Darrell)  his  first  attempt  at  imposition 
had  been  so  scornfully  resisted  by  his  indignant 
father-in-law  —  he  had  played  fast  and  loose 
with  a  means  of  extortion  which,  though  loth  to 
abandon,  he  knew  would  not  bear  any  strict  in- 
vestigation;— all  this  is  now  clear  to  the  reader. 
And  the  reader  will  also  comprehend  why,  part- 
ly from  fear  that  his  father  might  betraj-  him, 
partly  from  a  compassionate  unwillingness  to 
deprive  the  old  man  of  a  belief  in  which  Will- 
iam Losely  said  he  had  found  such  solace,  Jas- 
per, in  his  last  inteiwiew  ^\•ith  his  father,  shrunk 
from  saying,  '"but  she  is  not  your  grandchild!" 
The  idea  of  recurring  to  the  true  relations  of 
the  child  naturally  never  entered  into  Jasper's 
brain.  He  considered  them  to  be  as  poor  as 
himself.  They  buy  from  him  the  child  of  par- 
ents whom  they  had  evidently,  by  their  letters, 
taxed  themselves  to  the  utmost,  and  in  vain,  to 
save  from  absolute  want!  So  wild  seemed  that 
notion  that  he  had  long  since  forgotten  relations 
so  useless  existed.  Fortunately  the  Nurse  had 
preserved  the  written  statement  of  the  singer — 
the  letters  by  ]\Irs.  Vance  and  Frank — the  cer- 
tificate of  the  infant's  birth  and  baptism — some 
poor  relics  of  Sophy's  ill-fated  parents — manu- 
scripts of  Arthur's  poems — baby-caps  with  ini- 
tials and  armorial  crests,  wrought  before  her 
confinement  by  the  young  wife— all  of  which 
had  been  consigned  by  the  singer  to  the  nurse, 
and  which  the  nurse  willingly  'disposed  of  to 
Mrs.  Crane,  with  her  own  forinal  deposition  of 
the  facts,  confirmed  by  her  sister,  Gabrielle's 
old  confidential  attendant,  and  who,  more  fa- 
vored than  her  mistress,  was  living  peaceablv  in 
the  rural  scenes  of  her  earlier  innocence,  upon 
the  interest  of  the  gains  she  had  saved  in  no  in- 
nocent sen'ice — confirmed  yet  more  by  refer- 
ences to  many  whose  testimonies  could  trace, 
step  by  step,  the  child's  record  from  its  birth  to 
its  transfer  to  Jasper,  and  by  the  brief  but  dis- 
tinct avowal,  in  tremulous  lines,  writ  by  Jasper 
himself.  As  a  skein  crossed  and  tangled,  when 
the  last  knot  is  loosened,  slips  suddenly  free,  so 
this  long-bewildering  mystery  now  became  clear 
as  a  commonplace!  What  years  of  suflfering 
Darrell  might  have  been  saved  had  he  himself 
seen  and  examined  the  nurse — had  his  inqniry 
been  less  bounded  by  the  fear  of  his  pride — had 
the  great  lawyer  not  had  himself  for  a  client  I 
Darrell  silently  returned  to  Alban  Morley  the  ' 


papers  over  which  he  had  cast  his  eye  as  they 
walked  slowly  to  and  fro  the  sloping  banks  of 
the  lake. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  he,  glancing  fondly,  as  Fair- 
thorn  had  glanced  before  him,  toward  the  old 
House,  now  freed  from  doom,  and  permitted  to 
last  its  time ;  "  it  is  well,"  he  repeated,  looking 
away  toward  that  part  of  the  landscape  where 
he  could  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  Sophy's  light 
form  beyond  the  barbed  thorn-tree;  "it "is  well," 
be  repeated  thrice,  with  a  sigh.  "Poor  human 
nature !  Alban,  can  you  conceive  it.  I,  who 
once  so  dreaded  that  that  poor  child  should 
prove  to  be  of  my  blood,  now,  in  knowing  that 
she  is  not,  feel  a  void,  a  loss !  To  Lionel  I  am 
so  distant  a  kinsman  I — to  his  wife,  to  his  chil- 
dren, what  can  I  be  ?  A  rich  old  man  ;  the 
sooner  he  is  in  his  grave  the  better.  A  few- 
tears,  and  then  the  will !  But,  as  your  nephew- 
says,  'This  life  is  but  a  school ;'  the  new-comer 
in  the  last  form  thinks  the  head-boy  just  leaving 
so  old !  And  to  us,  looking  back,  it  seems  but 
the  same  yesterday  whether  we  were  the  last 
comer  or  the  head-boy." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Alban,  plaintively,  "  that, 
for  a  short  time  at  least,  I  had  done  with  '  pain- 
ful subjects.'  You  revel  in  them  !  County  Guy, 
you  have  not  left  school  yet :  leave  it  with  cred- 
it ;  M-in  the  best  prize."  And  Alban  plunged  at 
once  into  The  Crisis.  He  grew  eloquent ;  the 
Party,  the  Country,  the  Great  IMeasure  to  be 
intrusted  to  Darrell,  if  he  would  but  undertake 
it  as  a  member  of  the  Cabinet ;  the  Peerage, 
the  House  of  Vipont,  and  immortal  glory ! — el- 
oquent as  Ulysses  haranguing  the  son  of  Pelens 
in  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Darrell  listened  coldly ;  only  while  Alban 
dwelt  on  "  the  Measure"  in  which,  when  it  was 
yet  too  unripe  for  practical  statesmen,  he  had 
attached  his  faith  as  a  thinker,  the  orator's  eye 
flashed  with  young  fire.  A  gi-eat  truth  is  eter- 
nally clear  to  a  great  heart  that  has  once  nour- 
ished its  germ  and  foreseen  its  fruits.  But 
when  Alban  quitted  that  part  of  his  theme  all 
the  rest  seemed  wearisome  to  his  listener. 
They  had  now  wound  their  walk  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  lake,  and  ]'aused  near  the  thick 
beech-trees,  hallowed  and  saddened  by  such  se- 
cret associations  to  the  mournful  owner. 

"  No,  my  dear  Alban,"  said  Darrell,  "  I  can  not 
summon  up  sufficient  youth  and  freshness  of 
spirit  to  re-enter  the  turbulent  arena  I  have  left. 
Ah !  look  yonder  where  Lionel  and  Sophy  move  \ 
Give  me,  I  do  not  say  Lionel's  years,  but  Lionel's 
wealth  of  hope,  and  I  might  still  have  a  wish 
for  fame  and  a  voice  for  England ;  but  it  is  a 
subtle  truth  that  where  a  man  misses  a  home,  a 
link  between  his  country  and  himself  is  gone. 
Vulgar  ambition  may  exist — the  selfish  desire 
of  power;  they  were  never  very  strong  in  me, 
and  now  less  strong  than  the  desire  of  rest; 
but  that  beautiful,  genial,  glorious  union  of  all 
the  aff"ections  of  social  citizen,  which  begins  at 
the  hearth  and  widens  round  the  land,  is  not 
for  the  hermit's  cell." 

Alban  was  about  to  give  up  the  argument  in 
in-itable  despair,  when,  happening  to  turn  his 
eye  toward  the  farther  depth  of  the  beech- 
grove,  he  caught  a  glimpse — no  matter  what  of; 
but  quickening  his  step  in  the  direction  to  which 
his  glance  had  wandered,  he  seated  himself  on 
the  gnarled  roots  of  a  tree  that  seemed  the 


310 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


monarch  of  the  wood,  wide-spreading  as  that 
under  which  Tityrus  reclined  of  old ;  and  there, 
out  of  sight  of  the  groups  on  the  opposite  hanks 
of  the  lake  —  there,  as  if  he  had  sought  the 
gloomiest  and  most  secret  spot  for  what  he  had 
yet  to  say,  he  let  fall,  in  the  most  distinct  yet 
languid  tones  of  his  thorough- bred,  cultured 
enunciation,  "  I  have  a  message  to  you  from 
Lady  Montfort.  Eestless  man,  do  come  near- 
er, and  stand  still.  I  am  tired  to  death."  Dar- 
rell  approached,  and,  leaning  against  the  trunk 
of  the  giant  tree,  said,  with  folded  arms  and 
compressed  lips, 

"  A  message  from  Lady  ^lontfort !" 

"  Yes.  I  should  have  told  you,  by-the-hy, 
that  it  was  she  who,  being  a  woman,  of  course 
succeeded  where  I,  being  a  man,  despite  in- 
credible pains  and  trouble,  signally  failed,  dis- 
covered Arabella  Fossett,  alias  Crane,  and  ob- 
tained from  her  the  documents  which  free  your 
life  forever  from  a  haunting  and  torturing  fear. 
I  urged  her  to  accompany  me  hither,  and  place 
the  documents  herself  in  }our  hand.  She  re- 
fused ;  j'ou  were  not  worth  so  much  trouble,  my 
dear  Gu3\  I  requested  her  at  least  to  sufl'er  me 
to  show  to  you  a  paper  containing  Jasper  Lose- 
ly's  confession  of  a  conspiracy  to  poison  her 
mind  against  you  some  years  ago— a  conspiracy 
so  villainously  ingenious  that  it  would  have  com- 
pletely exonerated  any  delicate  and  proud  young 
girl  from  the  charge  of  fickleness  in  yielding  to 
an  impulse  of  pique  and  despair.  But  Lady 
Montfort  did  not  wish  to  be  exonerated;  your 
good  opinion  has  ceased  to  be  of  the  slightest 
value  to  her.  But  to  come  to  the  point.  She 
bade  me  tell  you  that  if  yoa  persist  in  shelter- 
ing yourself  in  a  hermit's  cell  from  the  fear  of 
meeting  her — if  she  be  so  dangerous  to  your 
peace — you  may  dismiss  such  absurd  apprehen- 
sion. She  is  going  abroad ;  and,  between  you 
and  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  not  a  doubt 
that  she  %vill  marry  again  before  six  months  are 
out.  I  spoke  of  your  sufferings ;  she  told  me 
she  had  not  the  smallest  compassion  for  them." 

"Alban  Morley,  you  presumed  to  talk  thus 
of  me?"  cried  Darrell,  livid  with  rage. 

"  Strike,  but  hear  me.  It  is  true  you  would 
not  own,  when  I  was  last  at  Fawley,  that  she 
was  the  cause  of  your  secluded  life,  of  your 
blighted  career :  but  I  knew  better.  However, 
let  me  go  on  before  you  strangle  me.  Lady 
Alontfort's  former  feelings  of  friendship  for  you 
are  e^"idently  quite  changed;  and  she  charged 
me  to  add  that  she  really  hoped  that  you  would 
exert  your  good  sense  and  pride  (of  which  Heav- 
en knows  you  have  plenty)  to  eradicate  an  ab- 
surd and  romantic  sentiment,  so  displeasing  to 
her,  and  so — " 

"It  is  false !  it  is  false  !  What  have  I  done 
to  you,  Colonel  Morley,  that  you  should  slander 
me  thus  ?  /  send  you  messages  of  taunt  and 
insult,  Mr.  Darrell!  I — /.' — you  can  not  be- 
lieve it — you  can  not  I" 

Caroline  Montfort  stood  between  the  two,  as 
if  she  had  dropped  from  heaven. 

A  smile,  half  in  triumph,  half  in  irony,  curved 
the  lip  of  the  fine  gentleman.  It  faded  instant- 
ly as  his  eye  turned  from  the  face  of  the  earn- 
est woman  to  that  of  the  earnest  man.  Alban 
Morley  involuntarily  bowed  his  head,  murmur- 
ed some  words,  unheard,  and  passed  from  the 
place,  unheeded. 


Not  by  concert  nor  premeditation  was  Caro- 
line Montfort  on  that  spot.  She  had  consent- 
ed to  accompany  her  cousin  to  Fawley,  but  be- 
fore reaching  the  park-gates  her  courage  failed 
her;  she  would  remain  within  the  carriage; 
the  Colonel,  wanted  in  London  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, whatever  the  result  of  his  political  mis- 
sion to  Darrell,  could  not  remain  long  at  Faw- 
ley ;  she  would  return  with  him.  Vance's  jjres- 
ence  and  impatient  desire  to  embrace  his  niece 
did  not  allow  the  Colonel  an  occasion  for  argu- 
ment and  parley.  Chafed  at  this  fresh  experi- 
ence of  the  capricious  uncertainty  of  woman,  he 
had  walked  on  with  Vance  to  the  ilanor  House. 
Left  alone,  Caroline  could  not  endure  the  still- 
ness and  inaction  which  increased  the  tumult 
of  her  thoughts ;  she  would  at  least  have  one 
more  look — it  might  be  the  last — at  the  scenes 
in  which  her  childhood  had  sported — her  youth 
known  its  first  happy  dreams.  But  a  few  yards 
across  those  circumscribed  demesnes,  on  through 
those  shadowy,  serried  groves,  and  she  should 
steal,  unperceived,  in  view  of  the  house,  the  be- 
loved lake  —  perhaps  even  once  more  catch  a 
passing  glimpse  of  the  owner.  She  resolved, 
she  glided  on,  came ;  she  gained  the  beech- 
grove,  when,  by  the  abrupt  wind  of  the  banks, 
Darrell  and  Alban  came  suddenly  on  the  very 
spot.  The  flutter  of  her  robe,  as  she  turned  to 
retreat,  caught  Alban's  eye ;  the  reader  com- 
prehends with  what  wily  intent,  conceived  on 
the  moment,  that  unscrupulous  intriijant  shaped 
the  words  that  chained  her  footstep,  and  then 
stung  her  on  to  self-disclosure.  Trembling  and 
blushing,  she  now  stood  before  the  startled  man 
— he,  startled  out  of  every  other  sentiment  and 
feeling  than  that  of  inefl;able,  exquisite  delight 
to  be  once  more  in  her  presence ;  she,  after  her 
first  passionate  outburst,  hastening  on,  in  con- 
fused, broken  words,  to  explain  that  she  was 
there  but  by  accident  —  by  chance;  confusion 
growing  deeper  and  deeper — how  explain  the 
motive  that  had  charmed  her  steps  to  the  spot  ? 

Suddenly  from  the  opposite  bank  came  the 
music  of  the  magic  flute,  and  her  voice  as  sud- 
denly stopped  and  failed  her. 

"  Again  —  again,"  said  Darrell,  dreamily. 
"  The  same  music!  the  same  air  I  and  this  the 
same  place  on  which  we  two  stood  together  when 
I  first  dared  to  say, '  I  love !'  Look,  we  are  un- 
der the  very  tree !  Look,  there  is  the  date  I 
caiwed  on  the  bark  when  you  were  gone,  but 
had  left  Hope  behind.  Ah!  Caroline,  why  can 
I  not  now  resign  myself  to  age  ?  Why  is  youth, 
while  I  speak,  rushing  back  into  my  heart,  into 
my  soul  ?  Wliy  can  not  I  say,  '  Gratefully  I  ac- 
cept your  tender  friendship ;  let  the  past  be  for- 
gotten ;  through  what  rests  to  me  of  the  future 
while  on  earth,  be  to  me  as  a  child  ?'  I  can  not 
— I  can  not  I     Go !" 

She  drew  nearer  to  him,  gently,  timidly. 
"Even  that,  Darrell — even  that;  something  in 
your  life — let  me  be  something  still!" 

"Ay,"  he  said  with  melancholy  bitterness, 
"you  deceive  me  no  longer  now!  You  own 
that,  when  here  we  stood  last,  and  exchanged 
our  troth,  you  in  the  blossom,  and  I  in  the  prime, 
of  life — you  own  that  it  was  no  woman's  love, 
deaf  to  all  calumny,  proof  to  all  craft  that  could 
wrong  the  absent ;  no  woman's  love,  warm  as 
the  heart,  undying  as  the  soul,  that  you  pledged 
me  then.'^-  — ^ 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


311 


"Darrell,  it  was  not — though  then  I  thought 
it  was." 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  continued  with  a  smile,  as  if 
of  triiimpii  in  his  own  pangs,  "so  that  truth  is 
confessed  at  last !  And  when,  once  more  free, 
you  wrote  to  me  the  letter  I  returned,  rent  in 
fragments,  to  your  hand — or  when,  forgiving 
my  rude  outrage  and  fierce  reproach,  you  spoke 
to  me  so  gently  yonder,  a  few  weeks  since,  in 
these  lonely  shades,  then  what  were  your  sen- 
timents, your  motives?  Were  they  not  those 
of  a  long-suppressed  and  kind  remorse? — of  a 
charity  akin  to  that  which  binds  rich  to  poor, 
bows  happiness  to  suffering? — some  memories 
of  gratitude — nay,  perhaps  of  childlike  affec- 
tion?— all  amiable,  all  generous,  all  steeped  in 
that  sweetness  of  nature  to  which  I  unconscious- 
ly rendered  justice  in  the  anguish  I  endured  in 
losing  you ;  but  do  not  tell  me  that  even  then 
you  were  under  the  influence  of  woman's 
love." 

"  Darrell,  I  was  not." 

"You  own  it,  and  you  suffer  me  to  see  you 
again  I  Trifler  and  cruel  one,  is  it  but  to  en- 
joy the  sense  of  yom'  undiminished,  unalterable 
power?" 

"  Alas,  Darrell  I  alas !  why  am  I  here  ? — ^vhy 
so  yearning,  yet  so  afraid  to  come  ?  Why  did 
my  heart  fail  when  these  trees  rose  in  sight 
against  the  sky  ? — why,  why — why  was  it  drawn 
hither  by  the  spell  I  could  not  resist?  Alas, 
Darrell,  alas  I  I  am  a  woman  noiv — and — and 
this  is — "  She  lowered  her  vail  and  turned 
away ;  her  lips  could  not  utter  the  word,  because 
the  word  was  not  pity,  not  remorse,  not  remem- 
brance, not  even  affection ;  and  the  woman 
loved  now  too  well  to  subject  to  the  hazard  of 
rejection — Love  ! 

" Stay,  oh  stay !"  cried  Darrell.  "Oh  that  I 
could  dare  to  ask  you  to  complete  the  sentence  I 
I  know — I  know  by  the  mysterious  sympathy  of 
my  own  soul,  that  you  could  never  deceive  me 
more  !  Is  it — is  it — "  His  lips  falter  too ;  but 
her  hand  is  clasped  in  his ;  her  head  is  reclined 
upon  his  breast ;  the  vail  is  withdrawn  from  the 
sweet  downcast  face ;  and  softly  on  her  ear  steal 
the  murmured  words,  "  Again  and  now,  till  the 
grave — Oh,  by  this  hallowing  kiss,  again — the 
Caroline  of  old  I" 

Fuller  and  fuller,  spreading,  wave  after  wave, 
throughout  the  air,  till  it  seem  interfused  and 
commingled  with  the  bi-eath  which  the  listeners 
breathe,  the  flute's  mellow  gush  streams  along. 
The  sun  slopes  in  peace  toward  the  west ;  not  a 
cloud  in  those  skies,  clearer  seen  through  yon 
boughs  stripped  of  leaves,  and  rendering  more 
vivid  the  evergreen  of  the  arbute  and  laurel. 

I^ionel  and  Sophy  are  now  seated  on  yon 
moss-gro-mi  trunk ;  on  either  side  the  old  gray- 
haired  man,  as  if  agreeing  for  a  while  even  to 
forget  each  other,  that  they  may  make  Mm  feel 
how  fondly  he  is  remembered.  Sophy  is  resting 
both  her  hands  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  look- 
ing into  his  face,"  and  murmuring  in  his  ear  with 
voice  like  the  coo  of  a  happy  dove.  Ah !  fear 
not,  Sophy ;  he  is  happy  too — he,  who  never 
thinks  of  himself.  Look  —  the  playful  smile 
round  his  arch  lips ;  look — now  he  is  showing 
oft'  Sir  Isaac  to  Vance ;  with  austere  solemnity 


the  dog  goes  through  his  tricks ;  and  Vance, 
with  hand  stroking  his  chin,  is  moi'alizing  on  all 
that  might  have  befallen  had  he  grudged  his 
three  pounds  to  that  famous  ixvestment  ! 

Behind  that  group,  shadowed  by  the  Thorn- 
tree,  stands  the  Preachee,  thoughtful  and 
grave,  foreseeing  the  grief  that  must  come  to 
the  old  man  with  the  morrow,  when  he  will 
learn  that  a  guilty  son  nears  his  end,  and  wiU 
hasten  to  comfort  Jasper's  last  days  with  pardon. 
But  the  Preacher  looks  not  down  to  the  death- 
couch  alone ;  on  and  high  over  death  looks  the 
Preacher  I  By  what  words  heavenly  mercy  may 
lend  to  his  lips  shall  he  steal  away,  yet  in  time, 
to  the  soul  of  the  dying,  and  justifv  murmurs 
of  hope  to  the  close  of  a  life  so  dark  with  the 
shades  of  its  past  ?  And  to  him,  to  the  Preacher, 
they  who  survive — the  two  mourners — will  come 
in  their  freshness  of  soitow  !  He  the  old  man  ? 
Nay  to  him  there  will  be  comfort.  His  spirit 
Heaven's  kindness  had  tempered  to  trials ;  and, 
alas !  for  that  son,  what  could  fiither  hope  more 
than  a  death  free  from  shame,  and  a  chance 
yet  vouchsafed  for  repentance?  But  she,  the 
grim,  iron-gray  woman  ?  The  Preacher's  inter- 
est, I  know,  will  sqo  centre  on  her : — And  balm 
may  yet  fall  on  tliy  wounds,  thou  poor,  grim, 
iron-gray,  loving  woman ! 

Lo  !-  that  traitor,  the  Flute-player,  over  whom 
falls  the  deep  grateful  shade  from  the  eaves  of 
the  roof-tree  reprieved ;  though  unconscious  as 
yet  of  that  hapjiy  change  in  the  lot  of  the  mas- 
ter, which,  ere  long,  may  complete  (and  haply 
for  sons  sprung  in  truth  from  the  blood  of  the 
Darrell)  yon  skeleton  pile,  and  consummate,  for 
ends  nobler  far,  the  plan  of  a  grand  life  imper- 
fect ;-r-though  as  yet  the  musician  nor  knows 
nor  conjectures  the  joy  that  his  infamous  treason 
to  Sophy  so  little  deserves ;  yet,  as  if  by  those 
finer  perceptions  of  sense,  impressed,  ere  they 
happen,  by  changes  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 
which  Art  so  mysteriously  gives  to  the  minds 
from  which  music  is  bom,  his  airs,  of  them- 
selves, float  in  joy :  Like  a  bird  at  the  coming 
of  spring,  it  is  gladness  that  makes  him  melo- 
dious. 

And  Alban  Morley,  seemingly  intent  upon 
the  sketch  which  his  amiable  niece-in-law  sub- 
mits to  his  critical  taste  ere  she  ventures  to  show 
it  to  Vance,  is  looking  from  under  his  brows 
toward  the  grove,  out  from  which,  towering  over 
all  its  dark  brethren,  soars  the  old  trysting 
beech-tree,  and  to  himself  he  is  saying,  "  Ten 
to  one  that  the  old  House  of  Vipont  now  weather 
the  Crisis  ;  and  a  thousand  to  one  that  I  find 
at  last  my  arm-chair  at  the  hearth  of  my  school- 
friend,  Guy  Darrein" 

And  the  lake  is  as  smooth  as  glass ;  and  the 
swans,  hearkening  the  music,  rest  still,  with 
white  breasts  against  the  grass  of  the  margin; 
and  the  doe,  where  she  stands,  her  fore-feet 
in  the  water,  lifts  her  head  wistfully,  with  nos- 
trils distended,  and  wondering  soft  eyes  that  are 
missing  the  master.  Xow  full  on  the  beech- 
grove  shines  the  westering  sun;  out  from  the 
gloomy  beech-grove  into  the  golden  sunlight — 
They  come,  they  come — Man  and  the  Helpmate, 
two  lives  rebetrothed — ts^-o  souls  reunited.  Be 
it  evermore!     Amen. 


THE    END. 


THACKERAY'S  WORKS. 


Thackeray's  Works  are  an  indispensable  portion  of  every  well-selected  library.  His  vivid  pictures  of  real  life,  his  keen  per. 
ception  of  the  shams  and  pretense  that  lurk  under  an  imposing  exterior,  his  biting  sarcasm  on  fashionable  follies,  his  anatomical 
dissection  of  character,  with  the  terse  and  pointed  vigor  of  his  style,  place  him  in  the  front  rank  of  English  liction-writers,  and 
assure  a  lasting  fame  to  his  productions.  The  personages  who  have  been  the  subjects  of  his  caustic  pen  appear  like  the  men 
and  women  whom  we  meet  in  the  daily  walks  of  society,  and,  by  their  life-like  naturalness,  make  an  indelible  impression  on 
the  imagination  and  memory.  No  popular  novelist  has  succeeded  so  well  in  representing  the  darker  shades  of  human  nature 
without  indulging  in  exaggeration  or  descriptions  of  low  depravity.  His  works  are  no  less  valuable  as  an  introduction  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  world  than  as  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  entertainment. 


The  Newcomes. 

Memoirs  of  a  most  Respectable  Family.  Edit- 
ed by  AEtuuR  Pendennis,  Esq.  Illustrated  by 
Richard  Doyle.  2  vols.  Svo,  Paper,  $1  T5 ; 
Muslin,  $2  00. 

We  think  the  great  mass  of  his  readers  will  bear  us  out  in 
our  opinion,  that  the  Newcomes  is  not  only  the  most  agreeable 
story,  but  the  cleverest  book  which  Mr.  Thackeray  has  yet  con- 
tributed for  the  amusement  and  edification  of  the  admiring  pub- 
lic. There  has  never  been  a  nobler  sketch  than  that  of  the 
Colonel.  We  can  understand  how  every  individual  in  the  story 
or  out  of  it  rejoices  to  gain  the  acquaintance  of  Thomas  New- 
come.  The  key-note  of  the  story  is  struck  high  and  sweet  in 
his  character,  which  is  at  once  so  lofty  and  child-like. — Black- 
wood's Magazine. 

The  story  lingers,  and  loses  it-sclf  willingly  in  those  by-paths 
of  humor  and  sentiment  which  are  worth  all  the  beaten  tracks 
of  all  the  most  exciting  novels  in  the  world. — London  Leader. 

Thackeray  must  take  his  stand  at  the  head  of  the  prose  sat- 
irists, if  not  of  the  novelists,  of  the  day.  No  one  describes  the 
scenes  and  manners  of  society  with  such  curious  felicity. — 
Washington  Republic. 

Thackeray  pictures  society  in  all  its  phases  in  a  graphic, 
sarcastic,  and  yet  genial  manner. — Transcript. 

Why  have  1  alluded  to  this  man  ?  I  have  alluded  to  him, 
reader,  because  I  think  I  see  in  him  an  intellect  profounder  and 
more  unique  than  his  contemporaries  have  yet  recognized  ;  be- 
cause I  regard  him  as  the  first  social  regenerator  of  the  day — 
as  the  very  master  of  that  working  corps  who  would  restore  to 
rectitude  the  warped  system  of  things  ;  because  I  think  no  com- 
mentator on  his  writings  has  yet  found  the  comparison  that 
suits  him,  the  tenns  which  rightly  characterize  his  talent. 
They  say  lie  is  like  Fielding  ;  they  talk  of  his  wit,  humor,  comic 
powers.  He  resembles  Fielding  as  an  eagle  does  a  vulture; 
Fielding  could  stoop  on  carrion,  but  Thackeray  never  does. 
His  wit  is  bright,  his  humor  attractive,  but  both  bear  the  same 
relation  to  his  serious  genius  that  the  mere  lambent  sheet- 
lightning,  playing  under  the  edge  of  the  summer  cloud,  does  to 
the  eljctric  death-spark  hid  in  its  womb. — "  Cubrer  Bell," 
Author  of  Jane  Eyre,  Shirley,  and  Villette. 

The  History  of  Pendemiis : 

His  Fortunes  and  Misfortunes,  his  Friends  and 
liis  greatest  Enemy.      By  W.  M.  Thacker.w, 
With  Illustrations  by  the  Author.    2  vols.  8to, 
Muslin,  $2  00, 
We  recognize  in  "  Pendennis"  the  able  and  vigorous  intel- 
lect which  evinced  so  intimate  a  knowledge  of  life  and  such 
inimitable  powers  in  "  Vanity  Fair." — Lo?id.  Morning  Herald. 
To  know  clubmen,  the  well-settled,  firrnly-based,  middle- 
aged,  and  antique  respectabilities  of  the  West  End,  you  must 
read  Thackeray.     To   feel  the  atmosphere  of  a   St.  James's 
drawing-room,  you  must  read  Thackeray.     To  study  the  ac- 
cessories of  this  velvet  life,  even  to  the  calves  and  grandeur  of 
Sir  James  Yellow-plush,  you  must  read  Thackeray.     He  is  a 
man  of  the  world,  of  travel,  of  society  ;  has  graduated  in  Eu- 
rope, in  Asia,  in  the  press ;  knows  military  men,  knows  au- 
thors ;  is  familiar  with  the  gallant  ways  of  young  bloods  and 
men  of  estate  ;  cons  London  through  the  transparent  plate 
glass  of  a  club-room  window  ;  has  seen  the  country,  and  can 
ingraft  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  woman  upon  its  rural 
beauties. — Literary  World. 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring : 

Or,  the  History  of  Prince  Giglio  and  Prince 
Bulbo.  A  Fireside  Pantomime  for  Great  and 
Small  Children.  By  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh.  Nu- 
mcious  Illustrations.  Small  4to,  Muslin,  75 
cents. 


Vanity  Fair. 

A  Novel  without  a  Hero.  By  "W.  M.  Thack- 
eray.    With  Illustrations.     Svo,  Muslin,  $1  25. 

To  all  who  have  read  "Vanity  Fair"  or  "  The  Great  Hog- 
garty  Diamond,"  the  very  name  of  Thackeray  is  suggestive  of 
the  good  things  contained  in  any  book  he  may  choose  to  write. 
Thackeray's  sympathies  are  all  healthful  ami  invigorating ;  he 
is  the  sworn  enemy  of  all  humbug  and  jiretension,  and  the 
good-humored  but  effective  satire  nith  which  he  assails  them 
has  rendered  him  one  of  the  most  popular  writers  of  the  day. — 
New  Bedford  Mercury. 

"  Vanity  Fair"'  must  be  admitted  to  be  one  of  the  most  orig- 
inal works  of  real  genius  that  has  of  late  been  given  to  the 
world.  It  will  take  a  lasting  place  in  our  literature. — London 
Examiner. 

We  were  little  prepared  for  the  keen  observation,  the  deep 
wisdom,  and  the  consummate  art  which  Mr.  Thackeray  has 
interwoven  in  the  slight  texture  and  whimsical  pattern  of 
"  Vanity  Fair."  It  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  books  we  have 
read  for  many  a  long  year. — London  Quarterly  Review. 

The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond. 

By  W.  M.  Thackeray.  Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 
A  most  humorous  work  by  Thackeray — very  droll  and  very 
good.  There  is  one  scene  in  the  book  varying  from  its  general 
character,  that  surpasses  in  beauty  and  pathos  any  thing  we 
have  ever  read  by  Dickens.  This  is  a  bold  assertion,  but  it  is 
true.  We  need  not  point  it  out,  as  every  body  will  know  the 
scene  by  the  moisture  that  rises  to  his  eyes  when  reading  it. — 
Ladies'  Book. 

The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esq., 

Late   Colonel  in  the  Service  of  Iler  Mitjesty 
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To  prev^ent  difappointment,  it  is  fuggefted  that,  whenever  books  can  not  be  obtained 
thj-ough  any  bookfeller  or  local  agent,  apphcations  with  remittance  fhould  be  addreffed  di- 
reft  to  the  Publifhers,  which  will  be  promptly  attended  to. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

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.    .  1 1  1962 


SUMMf-i? 


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